The Big Witness
by KayEn78
Summary: It is May, 1948 when a young woman approaches Homicide Bureau and explains to Sergeants Joe Friday and Ben Romero how she could have assisted her father in murdering her mother five years prior. At home, Joe battles with hauntings of the war, Ma Friday's musings, and his new-found relationship with Policewoman Dorothy River.
1. Chapter 1

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Author's Note:** The characters of Ma Friday and Policewoman Dorothy River were featured in several radio _Dragnet_ episodes during its first year on the air. Some scenes and dialogue from The Badge Bandit (5/4/50) and The Big Gent Part 2 (7/27/50 are referenced in this chapter.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains some strong language, mild violence, and adult themes.

Chapter One

It was May 8, 1948—three years had passed since the war ended in Europe. For widowed Ma Friday, it was a red letter day. The kitchen calendar tacked against the wall with a push-pin hung nearest to the sink where Sergeant Joe Friday now stood washing dishes. Only at that moment, he stopped briefly to smirk at the reminder. Every year since then, she put a bold black ring around the date, using an old fountain pen that had been given to Joe as a high school graduation present from his Aunt Mary. On the day Germany surrendered to the Allies, Ma Friday wept. Her only son would officially return home and finally did so just before Thanksgiving of that year. The two of them had so much to be thankful for. Like others who also flocked to their homesteads after being away, Joe wanted to forget what he endured in the service; yet his mother albeit not deliberate, never could let him. It didn't matter that this particular Saturday was his only day off for the first time in weeks from working out of Homicide Bureau with the Los Angeles Police Department at City Hall.

At the kitchen sink, he stared out the window as his mother chattered on about the past. He'd occasionally respond, trying to be polite, but it was difficult.

"I know what day it is, Ma," he said, placing a pan in the dish rack next to the sink.

"I waited for you daily at Union Station ever since I received your telegram," she spoke as she bustled around the kitchen, dish towel in hand, putting away the dried dishes in cupboards.

"I know, Ma. You've told me that before."

He was going to try and enjoy this entire Saturday, but so far it hadn't started out well. Usually his mother arose around five in the morning to bring in the milk bottles that sat outside the front door, but today, Joe was up first. Things started going downhill when he nicked himself shaving, two buttons popped off his shirt while buttoning it up a second time due to the first being crooked, there wasn't a Fatima to be found in the house, and couldn't locate the newspaper, which the paperboy always threw in the bushes. He searched the driveway, on the side of the house and back to the front hedge—nothing. Shrugging his shoulders about the missing newspaper, he brought the milk crate inside and set it on the kitchen counter. Joe wasn't watching where he placed the four bottles in the refrigerator. Before he knew it, one slipped off of the wire rack onto the floor. Glass shattered in every direction and milk spilled creating a new design in the linoleum pattern. Joe cursed out loud, but hoped his mother hadn't heard. By then he heard his mother padding down the hallway, wanting to know what was going on.

"Don't worry about that, Joseph. I'll clean it up," she said just as he threw open the broom closet door, ready to yank the mop out. All he gave in response was a tart "thank you" as he breezed past her, crunching through the shards of glass and out the front door. He was so furious; he didn't even remember to put on his fedora.

After stopping at the drugstore where he purchased a carton of Fatimas and finishing his first cigarette of the day, Joe drove around for about an hour, trying to calm down. Before heading home, he went to a local bakery and bought his mother and himself a couple of bear claws. When he returned to 4656 Collis Avenue, it was then Joe saw the day's paper lying next to the flowerbed along the side of the house. _I_ know _I looked there!_ He thought as he went to retrieve it. When Joe opened the front door, he was taken aback to see the old newspapers strewn all over the front hall and kitchen floor. He just shook his head. _She still uses_ newspapers _when mopping the floor!_

"I decided to clean and wax the floor. It needed it anyway," Ma Friday told Joe as he came into the kitchen and put the items on the table. In silence, he helped her pick up and discard the newspapers. As a woman of her generation, by doing this elongated method she gave credence that this way kept the floor's polished luster. They sat down to a breakfast of coffee and bear claws. He thought the day was getting better as they washed dishes from the night before, but she had to bring up the war again.

His replies to her musings fell on deaf ears as she recounted the moment two and a half years ago when Joe disembarked the train with the other servicemen. Those in uniform had been returning home for months by that time. The excitement seemed to have died down along with the brass bands and parades. A high school ensemble, over in the corner, struggled through the National Emblem March as the men milled about the station seeking once familiar faces of family members, sweethearts, wives or trying to make their way through the hordes of people to the doors that led outside. He could still remember her calling in the crowd, "Joseph! Joseph! I'm over here!" above all of the noise. She was the only one who called him that. To everyone else, it was just Joe. She had hugged him and sobbed, "Oh, my son! You're home and safe now!" Even Joe couldn't talk then, in fear of showing emotion in front of all, despite tears being shed around him.

"Remember I invited everyone over to see you that first weekend?" she continued, closing the door to the cabinet that held the dinner and smaller salad plates.

"Yes, Ma," he replied as he placed silverware among the tiny slots in the drying rack.

Of course he remembered! Seeing the relatives and neighbors for the first time in almost three years had been overwhelming to say the least. While he was glad to visit with them, the questions they asked were becoming monotonous and he speculated they were disappointed by his short and sometimes terse answers. He could never explain to his mother how he truly felt—how he didn't want to see everyone all at once and have them bombard him about his war experiences and his future—if he was going to return to work with the LAPD, attend college or finally move out of his mother's house and into one of his own, with the help of the G.I. Bill. After all, he had only been home a few days. At first, according to him, they seemed to be grateful of his homecoming, but as the evening wore on, the atmosphere became disheartening. Joe surmised it was because he hadn't arrived as some kind of war hero, but just a regular guy. They did say he was lucky to survive a war unscathed. For that, he would agree. He didn't think his mother noticed the reactions of the others; he wouldn't have wanted her to. She was so happy to have her son back.

"I found your lunch pail," Ma Friday said, startling Joe out of his unwanted flashback.

"My _what_?!" he answered back, sounding more abrupt than he meant to.

"Your lunch pail!" she cheerfully retorted as if she found a buried treasure. "The one you used to take to school."

"Ma, that was _years_ ago! Why did you keep that? Throw it out! It must be rusted by now." Joe turned on the hot water faucet and poured more Rinso into the sink.

"Oh no, I took good care of it," she continued as she dried a frying pan and placed it in the lower cupboard nearest to the oven. "I put it in the cabinet next to the icebox."

"They could've used that in the scrap drives during the war," retorted Joe, not looking at her as he spoke in almost a whisper, as he turned the faucet off. He then felt a grip on his arm as she turned him to face her. She now wrung the dish towel tightly in her hands. _Too late….of all things, why did she have to suddenly hear what I said?!_

"Joseph, don't you call me unpatriotic!"

"I didn't say—" His irritation was mounting again—all because she brought up the war and his homecoming. _Why now?_ His thoughts continued.

"I don't think the government would've missed one lunch pail," she said flatly. "I did my part while you were away."

"I _know_. You wrote me all about it."

"I did my part when your father was away in France during the last war! It was _his_ pail!"

She didn't talk about his father too often. His anger began to dissipate. So that was why she couldn't let go of it. Sentimentality rose above anything else—even during wartime.

"It belonged to my father?" he said, quietly, feeling guilty for even being remotely exasperated with her.

"Yes. I thought we'd go to the cemetery on Decoration Day. I'll pack us a lunch and we'll sit by the gravesite. We've visited every year, but never had a picnic."

She still referred to May 30th as Decoration Day and Joe wouldn't dream of correcting her now.

"That's sounds like a good idea," he said, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek as a way of apologizing for his behavior a few minutes earlier.

"Why don't you mow the lawn. I'll finish up here," she said.

"Okay, Ma." He dried his hands on his slacks, much to his mother's glare, and went out the back door.

Mowing the lawn seemed to relax him. It was something else that brought everything back to normal like before he had left. Even though a few of his neighbors had power lawn mowers now, he still did not mind using his trusty reel mower. It gave him time to think as he went back and forth in the front and back yards, down the patch of grass in between the cement runners on the driveway. He hoped the day would get better from here on out, but his mind kept going back to when he had returned home.

There was no loafing around the house for Joe Friday. On that Sunday, after the gathering, he and some neighborhood high school boys took his Washington blue 1939 Ford Deluxe coupe off of the blocks in the garage and the amateur mechanics of the group worked on it until it ran smooth enough. By then it was dusk. Ma Friday provided them with an appetizing pot roast dinner—something none of them had seen in months or for Joe—years. Although rationing was still in effect for certain things like coffee, other items began to slowly appear on store shelves and in meat markets again for the first time since early 1942. A year later, the Ford ended up being bought by one of the boys who animatedly told Joe how he wanted to "supe it up" into a hot rod, but his father wouldn't hear of it. Still, the boy was proud to finally own a set of wheels. With a few of Joe's allotment payments his mother insisted he take for himself and the cash he'd received from the old one, he went out and bought a new feather gray 1947 Ford sedan. He had a decent down-payment but didn't mind paying the remaining balance off each month. To him, it was another sign of normalcy and by doing so seemed to push the war further behind.

Joe continued with the LAPD as a detective with Homicide. His original partner, Sgt. Ben Romero, who broke him in back in 1938, remained at his side. Ben, a native of Texas, had been on the force for twenty-five years and married for twenty-three. He and his wife Amy had a six-year-old son who had been quite a surprise as well as a blessing.

Recently, Joe began dating again. This was the first time he'd seen anyone upon returning home. He had his share of dates, including brief encounters in high school and afterward. He was no virgin, far from it, but Joe felt he had matured in many ways from his past experiences. Shortly before he left for overseas duty in the fall of 1942, he had broken off a relationship with a girl because he didn't want to be attached while away, wouldn't want her to worry or him to receive one of those dreaded "Dear John" letters. It was better this way, he had told her. In retaliation, besides screaming at him over the phone one evening, calling him every name but his own, she mailed him pictures of the two of them together all cut up into tiny pieces. _Better to deal with this now than at the front,_ he had thought then. Even at that time, Ma Friday wanted Joe to get married and she was not happy with her son when he arrived home one night, a week or so before he shipped out and announced it was over.

While in Europe, when an opportunity with the opposite sex became available, Joe always declined the invitation. It was so easy to indulge into as the men around him boasted of their numerous encounters—uncensored. Some of them were married, engaged to a sweetheart back home, but none of that seemed to matter to them during wartime. Even a few of them had received a "Dear John" letter. Not everyone behaved this way, of course, others were like Joe. They remained faithful or simply didn't want to go along with everyone else and stayed at the bar, restaurant or where they were billeted. Still, too many had to visit the Medic. Joe would recall the snickering during the induction process into the service when they had to watch those hideous films about V.D. and how to avoid such matters. He thought if someone ever did a study or a poll—the numbers would be about even. In other words, a good amount of fighting and fucking went on while "over there."

Now, Joe had been seeing Policewoman Dorothy River for several months. They had first met while working together on decoy duty on a case during the night watch. Joe and Ben had been in a car accident involving a suspect in a stolen vehicle. The perpetrator had been speeding down the street toward their unit 80-K—a Botsford blue-green 1946 Ford sedan—like a bat-out-of-Hell. Ben ended up at Georgia Street Receiving Hospital for two weeks with a possible concussion, two broken ribs, as well as various lacerations' and contusions on his arms and face. Joe stayed in the P&F Ward for a couple of days, mainly due to a sprained left shoulder along with several cuts and bruises.

This was how he ended up on decoy duty with Dorothy, who worked out of Georgia Street Juvenile Bureau. A vicious man, whom the papers dubbed as the "Badge Bandit," masqueraded as a police officer by terrorizing and beating couples in parked cars. Their assignment was to go undercover as a "parked" couple to lure the suspect out into the open in the hopes that he'd choose the decoy car. When the Badge Bandit finally fell into their trap, both Joe and Dorothy let him have it. It was Dorothy who slugged him the hardest, knocking the perp out.

More recently though Joe had begun to affectionately refer to her as Dot, when off-duty, of course. Early on in their courtship, he took her to the movies, then dropped her off at the boarding house where she lived and discovered, the next morning, that she had lost her purse. It was found by Joe in his car as he drove to work the next morning. When the purse was returned, he teased her endlessly about how most girls would leave a lipstick or compact in the fellow's car in order to see them again, but _she_ had to go and leave her entire purse!

Not too long ago, Joe had Dorothy over to the house for Bar-B-Que spareribs and to meet his mother. Ma Friday always threw in a line about marriage, but their day off was cut short when the phone rang summoning him back to City Hall. Later that day, when Ben asked him about how Dorothy and Ma Friday got along, Joe said she handled his mother's brash attempt at subtleness well and had a good sense of humor about it all. Ben said she was a sensible girl.

Joe smiled as he pushed the mower down the middle patch of grass in between the cement runners on the driveway. He wondered when he would see Dot again. He chuckled to himself as he remembered when she had come over for the Bar-B-Que. His mother embarrassed him by saying, to Dorothy, that she didn't resemble a policewoman for she had thought they were supposed to look rough. _If only Ma could've seen Dot punch that bastard Badge Bandit!_

When the lawn was mowed, Joe entered the house through the back door off of the kitchen and heard his mother on the telephone in the hallway. In the refrigerator, he found a pitcher of lemonade, poured a glass for himself and drank it slowly. Just then, his mother came into the kitchen.

"Joseph, you're missing two buttons on your shirt."

"That happened this morning. My whole day has been off."

"We all have days like that. It's why I told you to mow the lawn. Did it help?"

"It did."

"That's good."

"Who was on the phone?"

"Oh! Your Uncle George wanted me to go up north to Renton to visit for ten days. I'll have to reserve a berth on a Pullman."

"When do you plan on going up to Washington?"

"Not till next week. Uncle George wants me to stay for two weeks. The train ride there and back will be several days. But I'll be back in time for Decoration Day."

"That sounds nice, Ma. He stayed with us over the holidays last year."

"Before that I haven't seen my brother in ages! He's been traveling a lot, visiting all of the relatives. Now it's our turn to go visit him. He doesn't want to be alone. He sure misses Bessie. She's been gone for a couple of years, you know." Ma Friday said as she pulled open the drawer on the telephone table and rummaged through it until she found the train schedule.

"Here's the timetable! I'll call the railroad right away," she beamed as she picked up the receiver. "Joseph, you'll take me to Union Station, won't you? I mean, if you're not working."

"Sure, Ma."

After dinner that evening, Joe took a shower and shaved again, this time being extra careful not to cut himself. Suppose he saw Dorothy tomorrow, he didn't want her to see him with nicks on his face or buttons missing on his shirt. Around ten, Ma Friday went to bed and Joe stayed up another half hour and listened to the radio. A music hour was playing. _Perfect for dancing_ , he thought.

His mind wandered to him and Dorothy's very first date. It all started during the stakeout which would end up being the time they caught the Badge Bandit. They had sat in the car together for nearly a week before that and nothing. They talked about everything they could possibly think of. They chatted about the movies that played at the various theaters in Los Angeles, which ones they've seen, popular songs and programs on the radio, their favorite foods, past cases they'd worked on in each of their departments and so on. Joe brought Dorothy up to date about himself beginning with when he graduated from Belmont High School in 1938 and joined the LAPD later that autumn as a patrolman out of Central Division. He talked of how he first met Ben and worked with him over in what was known as The Nickel then, at 5th and Main—the skid row district. Two years later, he was promoted to a detective and began working out of Homicide Bureau until Pearl Harbor was attacked on Sunday, December 7, 1941. The very next day, he ran down Collis Avenue, jumped onto the Yellow streetcar that took him to the Terminal Annex post office where he waited in line for hours with other eager boys to sign up. He chuckled at the memory of when they all filed out of the streetcar; it was completely empty. They tried to be as polite as 18-year-old boys could in a hurry. Joe glossed over his time spent in Europe, his arrival home, and finally being reinstated as a detective with Homicide.

Dorothy told him about her family, her two younger sisters still in high school, how she joined the WACs during the war, and that she had been engaged to someone who went overseas only to have them marry someone else a year later. She was devastated and did not want to date anyone until the war was over. When it ended, Dorothy aspired to be a policewoman, but her father didn't like the idea, saying that it wasn't the kind of job for a pretty girl like her and that the only thing she needed to think about now was finding a decent husband.

"That sounds familiar," Joe had told her. "Every day my mother says I need to be thinking about getting married. It drives me crazy! Even at work, the others would rib me or try to set me up with one of their single relatives. I'm very leery when they suddenly ask me over for dinner, leaving out their special guest. Ben will say something from time to time. Why can't everyone just leave me alone and let me go at my own pace?"

She had saved up a substantial amount to move into a room at a boarding house. Her mother cried when she left home for good, but Dorothy knew it was the right time in her life to do so. She was hoping for an apartment, but with the housing shortage, she was fortunate to find an empty room at all. She went on complaining to Joe about her landlady, how she watched her boarders like a hawk, especially when the female ones went on dates. No men, except the male boarders, were allowed past the front parlor. The landlady may be a pain, but she did provide two meals each day, at a higher rate, of course.

After those slow days of the stakeout, Dorothy asked Joe if he liked to dance. She went on to say that a club she was a part of always put on an annual formal with dinner and dancing. Joe hemmed and hawed saying although he'd been out dancing a few times, he didn't do so very well and didn't own or even look good in a tux. His third try to get out of it was to say he was working. She had an answer for everything. He could go if he wasn't working that day. About the tux, she told Joe he could rent one and that she had never met a man who thought they looked good in one. Dorothy thought it would be fun. He had smiled at her and asked if she was planning on going. When she replied she wanted to, he asked her if she had a date. "I hope," she answered, looking right at him. Finally, it was official and the two of them went out for an evening. Joe complimented Dorothy in her forest green dress and how it brought out the striking red in her hair and hazel in her eyes. He liked how the garment presented her curvy figure, but kept this thought to himself. On the dance floor, while a live orchestra played, both attempted to follow the steps the others were doing, trying to keep up. With Joe being three inches taller to Dorothy's 5'8", they fit together perfectly for the slower numbers as she rested her head on his shoulder, and stole a kiss on more than one occasion. At least they looked the part.

They had to look the part during the stakeout too. When they heard a car pull up behind them, each made a mental note of only one person inside. Glancing to see they had exited the vehicle, sauntering toward them, Joe turned to Dorothy and said, "All right, come on over closer. We might as well look the part." Two weeks later, after the dance, as Joe and Dorothy sat in his car in the driveway of the boarding house, taking quite a while to say goodnight, they felt relieved in not having to look the part anymore.

Joe had completely forgotten that it was Mother's Day until Ben reminded him as he rushed into Room 42, Homicide at 8:03 the next morning.

"You're a little late," teased Ben, as Joe hurried past him, nearing his locker. Droplets of rain peppered his gray tweed overcoat. Reaching inside his locker, Joe pulled out a comb and began to run it through his semi-soaked hair.

"I just about ran out of gas," Joe explained, tossing the comb onto the top shelf. "I ended up coasting to the filling station."

He slammed the locker door shut, and wandered over to sign himself in for the day.

"You sure were lucky!" said Ben, puffing away on a cigarette.

"You're telling me," Joe answered back, scribbling his name into the blank space including the time he arrived.

"What did you get your mother for Mother's Day, Joe?" his partner asked.

"To be honest, Ben, I forgot it was Mother's Day today." Joe replied, now sitting at the table across from him. He took a taste of the piping hot coffee from the cup in front of him.

"How can you forget about your own mother on—"

"I've had a lot on my mind lately," he snapped and yanked a cigarette and the matchbook out of his shirt pocket.

For Joe, it had been a horrible night. He had nightmares about the war before, but not in several weeks. When he had one, he'd wake up with a start, breathing heavily, his heart racing astonished at the tears trailing down his face into the already saturated perspiration that covered his body. Joe never wanted his mother to see him like that, but she'd be standing in her nightgown, slippers, and robe in the doorway to his bedroom with a look of concern and sorrow on her face.

"Joseph, are you all right now?" she'd ask quietly, and he'd reply in a hoarse voice, "Yeah, Ma. I'm okay." With that, he'd lie back down and roll over onto his side with his back to her and listen as she gingerly closed the door and went back to her room. Instant trepidation and rapid fury overwhelmed him as he realized each time this occurred, she had heard everything—be it a scream, cry, or calling out to no one in the darkness.

It was then he'd be up and in the shower. The most irksome thing was that Joe could never recall what he'd dreamt about. He knew it was something about the war because he never reacted that way during his slumber before he left.

But last night was a little different. Joe felt bad enough that his mother had to see him this way; only whatever he had dreamed about was so intense and real that he wound up on the floor after falling out of bed. When Joe awoke, he immediately noticed his mother coming toward him, asking if he was all right. Embarrassed, angry, and humiliated being sprawled out onto the floor, he lashed out and cursed at Ma Friday.

"Get the hell out of here!" he shouted.

"But, Joseph…I just—" she'd plead, trying to help him up. Instead he'd push her hand away.

"Goddammit! Didn't you hear me! I said, get _out_! Get out, _now_!"

As Joe was sitting up, all the while attempting to settle his nerves, he finally saw his door close. Like the other times, he'd get up and head into the bathroom to take a shower. When he was finished and back in his room, dressed for the day—minus his tie, after all with it being three in the morning, he'd always find his bed sheets changed.

He wouldn't consider himself a heavy drinker, but after what transpired, Joe went over to his closet and on the top shelf, pushed away boxes of schoolwork and projects to find a bottle of whiskey hidden in the corner. There were bottles of beer in the icebox, which Ma Friday didn't mind, but she never knew of the hard liquor. At a time like this, he needed it. He didn't consider himself like some of the other veterans he heard about—the ones that couldn't stay out of the bars each night or drink themselves into a stupor at home and there were the ones that could never seem to hold down a job. He vehemently believed he wasn't Section 8 material—not like those in the hospitals who were so far gone. They wouldn't let him be on the police force if he was like that. He knew how to control things and never drank to excess. After taking a swig from the bottle, Joe would return it to its hiding place and lay back down on the now-made bed and eventually fall asleep.

By the time Ma Friday woke Joe up, it was seven-thirty. Hastily running a comb through his hair, applying pomade, brushing his teeth, and tying his tie, he found his mother in the kitchen making breakfast. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and apologized for his behavior the night before.

"You need to eat a good breakfast, Joseph," she said.

"I don't have time today, Ma." And he was out the door.

At the filling station, the attendant seemed to take his sweet time when Joe told him to put in fifty cents worth of gasoline. With gas being sixteen cents a gallon, that would be enough until he had more time to fill up later. Joe nearly threw the four bits at the attendant as he did his best to heed all traffic signals and stop signs to get to City Hall before eight.

"Looks like you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"Ben, don't—" Joe started to say as he shoved the cigarette between his lips and lit the match.

"Maybe this'll cheer you up. My son sang a song to his mother this morning before she took him to school."

"What? I didn't know there was even a Mother's Day song," said Joe, after he took a drag and then sipped his coffee.

"It's not really a Mother's Day song, at least I don't think it is, but he learned how to spell mother. The only thing is is that I don't think Amy appreciated the line that went—"

"Ben," Joe interrupted. "If you're going to sing—"

"I'm not going to sing it, Joe. The line goes, 'O means only that she's growing old.' Amy didn't like that one. I saw the look on her face, but the boy didn't notice. He was too busy trying to remember all of the letters and what they stood for in the song."

"I wonder who taught him that," said Joe, feeling a little calmer now, trying to imagine Ben's six-year-old singing that old song.

"See? I got you to smile today, Joe!"

"You didn't answer my question. Who taught him that song?"

"I did."

"And what did you get your wife for Mother's Day, Ben?"

"I told her I'd get her something on the way home."

It was one in the afternoon when Joe and Ben returned to Room 42 from eating lunch at the Federal Café nearby. They logged themselves back into the book. Just then, a petite, attractive girl came into the room and asked if this was the place where you would report if someone had been murdered.

"Yes, this is the right place," said Ben, as he pulled out a chair for her and asked the girl to sit down. Joe sat in the chair next to him and the two men faced her from across the table. Joe offered to see if she wanted any water, coffee or a cigarette, but ended up declining all three.

The dark blonde, blue-eyed girl in the white blouse accented with pink roses and a beige skirt and bobby socks introduced herself as Evie Flowers and apprehensively tried to explain why she was there. She wanted to tell someone she thought her mother had been murdered.

"My father and I killed my mother five years ago." That was when she began to cry.

When Evie calmed down, both detectives told her to begin at the beginning. She explained, haltingly, between tears and hiccups, that in 1943, she worked at her father's drugstore delivering medicine. For some reason, her father didn't want the other high school boys to deliver medicine to anyone. They would deliver other items that people ordered or needed, but when it came to medication, it was her job to deliver it. It was during the war and many of the high school boys lied about their age to enlist in the service. There were always one or two younger boys who would deliver everything, but medication. At that time, as Evie explained, she felt proud to be working at her father's place doing something she thought, in some way, helped with the war effort besides rolling bandages for the Red Cross.

She also took care of her mother who always seemed to be ill. When Evie would ask her father if he knew what was wrong with Mother, he'd reply that no one knew and that she was doing the right thing by giving her the medication the doctor had prescribed.

"When would you give the medicine to your mother?" asked Joe.

"At dinnertime," Evie replied. "Daddy would have me ride home on my bike to give it to her. He told me to mix it up into her food because he said she liked it better that way."

"Did she ever notice anything different about her food?" asked Ben.

"No, she was always so tired and in pain, I don't think she noticed."

"How long did this go on?" asked Joe.

"Well, my mother was always sick, so depressed. She had been that way for as long as I can remember. But the medicine…me putting it in her food…that lasted for quite a while, a few months, I think. And then, she was gone." She was silent for a moment and finally continued.

"You won't tell my father I was here, will you?"

"No, ma'am. We won't say a word about you meeting with us," replied Joe.

"I'm so scared. I think he put something in that medicine I gave to her. I've thought about that for a long time. I just had to say something or else I'd go crazy. When I graduated from high school, I got out of that house as fast as I could. I stayed with a friend of mine. Over the summer I got a job on the college campus, helping the blind veterans get to class. I stayed in a boarding house. I'm still there these days. I told my father I wanted to go to college and he let me go, thank God. I could never go back to that drugstore or live at that house again. I'll sometimes go over for dinner, but that's only to keep up appearances."

"How old are you now, Miss Flowers," asked Ben.

"I'll be 20 next month. You won't put me in jail, will you?"

"No, you're not going to jail," said Joe.

"I think he talked me into it. I was too frightened to question him. He'd always say, "'If you love me, you'll do this for me.'" When you're a kid, you're supposed to believe what your parents say. I didn't know who to tell." She was silent for a minute and then went on. "Are you sure what I did doesn't make me a murderess?"

"You didn't murder anyone. You didn't know what could've been in that medication. You did the right thing by telling us about it now," said Joe and Ben nodded in agreement.

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains brief strong language.

Chapter Two

"What do you think of this one?" asked Ben, after the door closed behind Evie Flowers.

"I don't know. She says it happened five years ago," Joe replied as he shoved the notepad into the inside pocket of his gray tweed jacket.

"There's no statute of limitation on murder."

"I know that."

"Do you think he may have done this to other people?"

"I don't know. What we could do is ask around about his wife's death and if people noticed anything suspicious. We could also see about others who worked at the drugstore at that time."

"It's a start."

"Yeah, let's hope their memories are good."

They were given the go ahead to pursue this case by their superior, Captain Blaine Steve. Exiting the car pool in 80-K, the two men drove over to Flowers Pharmacy. Inside, there were a few shoppers browsing the aisles, and a young boy sat on a stool at the counter, finishing what was left of a banana split. The soda jerk had turned on the malt-mixer to prepare a malt or shake for a female customer that sat near the boy.

"Can I help you with something, gentlemen?" asked a smiling, yet stocky, bespectacled man in a white lab coat over his clothing. His voice rose over the noise of the malt-mixer.

"Are you the propieter of this drugstore?" asked Joe.

"I'm the owner, Bertram Flowers," the man said, and held out his hand. The malt-mixer had then stopped and the pharmacy fell silent.

"We're police officers, Mr. Flowers," explained Joe, showing his badge and I.D. while Ben did the same. Before either of them could shake Mr. Flowers' hand, he had dropped it along with the grin.

"Police? Oh no," he said, quietly, quickly glancing around, hoping no one had heard them. When he looked back, he said with a nervous twitch. "Follow me. I don't want anyone to know you're here."

As per the druggist's instructions, Joe and Ben did as they were told. As they passed an aisle, a woman approached Mr. Flowers and began to ask a question about a product she held in her hand. In his most professional voice he could muster, with the police behind him, he told her he'd be right back after assisting these two. When the three of them went by the lunch counter, they overheard the boy pleading with the soda jerk to make him a root beer float.

"No, Leroy," said the soda jerk. "The banana split was enough. You'll spoil your dinner."

"But I have enough money! I mowed all the lawns in our neighborhood!" The boy who looked over at them and frowned at the empty dish, couldn't been more than twelve years old. His pubescent voice and imploring for more dessert gave everything away.

"Your parents don't like you coming in here all the time."

"You know something?"

"No, what?"

"You really are a soda, _jerk_!" With that, he jumped off the stool. They could hear the bell tingle as the boy ran out the door.

Ben looked over at Joe with a grin on his face and Joe nodded with a slight grin of his own. Ah, youth! Mr. Flowers ushered them into the back room where the medication was dispensed. It was empty.

"Did she call you?" the druggist demanded.

"Who do you mean, sir," asked Ben.

"I told her not to—" said Mr. Flowers, as he shifted his weight on one foot to the other.

"Told who not to what?" asked Joe, thinking, _Hell, this is too easy!_

"I had a prescription filled this morning. When I came back from lunch I saw my assistant had typed it out wrong."

"Who was this prescription for?" asked Ben.

"Mrs. Freeman's baby… Did she call you?"

"No one called us," said Joe, impatiently. _Nope, this wasn't going to be easy. It never is!_

"You see, my assistant had typed out the wrong dosage on the label. It was a dose for an adult, not an infant. I immediately called Mrs. Freeman and told her not to give her baby the dosage that was typed on the bottle. It would kill her baby if she did so! I told her how much to give and to come back in so I can correct the label. I thought maybe something might've happened to the baby."

"We don't know anything about that, Mr. Flowers," said Ben. "We're just on a routine check of the pharmacies throughout the city."

"What kind of a routine check?" asked Mr. Flowers.

"We just want to make sure your poison register is in order," said Joe. His stomach turned to knots.

"Oh! Is _that_ all? Sure, you can see my register. I follow all the rules. I fill out the paperwork myself and double-check, just to make sure everything's correct. I then get their signature."

Mr. Flowers turned and went into his office. They heard him open a filing cabinet, remove a file and then close it.

"How far back do you need to go?"

"Seven years," said Joe. Those knots grew tighter. Oh, he hoped the man hadn't caught on to what they were trying to get at!

"Here we go, I'm always happy to cooperate with the police."

"Do you mind if we stay here and check everything out? It shouldn't take too long," asked Ben.

"No problem. Stay in the office. You had me scared for a moment there. I thought something may have happened to Mrs. Freeman's baby."

After the office door shut, and the footsteps faded away, Joe and Ben settled into chairs and began to sift through the paperwork.

"When did Evie say her mother passed away?" asked Ben.

"Let me see," replied Joe, as he reached into his inside jacket pocket for the notepad and flipped to the page that held the vital information. "She said her mother died on November 7, 1943. Here's the address and phone number of her father's house." Joe placed his notepad on the desk between them.

"We'll have to check all of that year to see if anything about Mr. Flowers is here. I'll start with January. Here's February." Ben passed that month's sheet over to Joe.

After a few minutes, Joe said, "We should probably make Photostatic copies of these and call everyone."

"I don't know, Joe. This was five years ago. How are people going to remember if they bought any poison?"

"Yeah, you're probably right. Let's just see if addresses or phone numbers match the one Evie gave us."

Intervals of silence followed, occasionally being punctuated with the footfalls of customers and employees roaming throughout the drugstore, the sluggish clacking of a nearby typewriter indicating its typist wasn't very proficient, heightened by the dull growl of the malt-mixer. Inside the small office, a rustle of paper and lighted match would also interrupt the stillness from time to time with a few mumbles of "Nothing here." And "Nope." "What about the next month?"

"Who's Rae Waterford?" asked Ben, pointing to a name on one of the past poison registers.

"What?"

"This phone number for a Rae Waterford matches the one Evie gave us. Do you think it might tie into something, Joe?"

"It might. I'll write that name down and we'll call later and see if we can find out who Rae is. Ben, I think we found what we were looking for. What month was that from?"

"April."

"What poison was used?"

"Arsenic."

"Yeah, most of them are either for cyanide, arsenic, or strychnine. The Big Three—in poison."

"Probably one of them was used."

"Okay, Ben. We should talk to the assistant and soda jerk. Maybe they were here around the time of Mrs. Flowers' death."

When Joe and Ben emerged from the office, the druggist was nowhere to be found. They looked in the back, but only could find the assistant, with her back to them, typing a prescription label on a typewriter using the hunt-and-peck method. She looked about sixteen in her brown plaid skirt and cream-colored blouse. Her mass of brown curls were pulled back on either side with two tortoise-shell combs.

"Excuse me, Miss?" asked Ben and the girl immediately stopped typing to turn and see who addressed her. "Is Mr. Flowers around?"

"Oh, he ran out for a minute," she said. "I made a mistake on a label and he went over to Mrs. Freeman's with the right one. I thought I was going to be fired! Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," said Joe, producing his badge and I.D. "We're police officers. Mr. Flowers gave us a file to check, but we're through with it now. We left it in his office on his desk."

"Is anything wrong, Officers?"

"No, nothing's wrong. Just routine," replied Ben.

"That's good. He was so nervous when you arrived earlier. He thought Mrs. Freeman's baby died. I had never been so scared in my life!"

"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?" inquired Joe.

"What do you want to talk to me for?"

"We just want to know how long you've been working for Mr. Flowers," said Ben. "That's all."

"Oh! I've been here for two years."

"Okay…thank you for your time," said Joe. _No help there._

For the second time that day, they saw the soda jerk behind the lunch counter. This time the stools were empty. Joe and Ben walked over to the teen and introduced themselves, again showing their I.D.'s and badges.

"Police?" The thin, dark-haired boy's voice raised an octave, not unlike Henry Aldrich's from radio, upon hearing that nerve-wracking word.

"Everything's all right, son," said Ben. "We were just here on routine. Can you fix us up some milkshakes?"

Oh, sure! Yeah, I can do that!" the young man then smiled and he seemed more at ease than a minute ago. "What kind would you like, gentlemen?"

"I'll have chocolate," said Ben. "Joe? What about you?"

"No thanks, I don't want one."

"But Joe, you _love_ chocolate!" chortled Ben. "Come on, I'll buy you one."

"Well…okay then. What's your name, son?" asked Joe.

"Homer. Homer Franklin."

As the soda jerk prepared their shakes, Joe and Ben made small talk with him. His apprehension continued to wane, but not before he nearly dropped a scoop of vanilla ice cream on his crisp, white apron.

"How long have you been working here, son?" asked Joe.

"Well, let's see. I started in 1942," Homer said, as he now carefully scooped the vanilla ice cream and placed it into two cups of the mint-green Hamilton Beach Triple Head Malt-Mixer. "I was still in junior high then. Mr. Flowers needed a soda jerk. All of the older guys enlisted or were being drafted for the war. Seemed like there was no one left but me. I've been here since then. I just turned seventeen, so I won't be graduating high school until next year. Anyway, I didn't have a bicycle, so I couldn't do deliveries. It was fine with me though. I like being a soda jerk. You meet a lot of people this way—and girls. Besides, I have a horrible sense of direction. I even get lost going home on the streetcar! Missed my stop on more than one occasion," the kid laughed, poured in the chocolate sauce, and flipped the switch.

The malt-mixer drowned out any conversation after that and the three of them waited for it to stop. Once Homer placed the shakes in front of them, the questioning resumed in between milkshake sips.

"You told us you began working here in 1942," said Ben. "Do you remember someone named Evie?"

"Yeah, that's Mr. Flowers' daughter. She doesn't work here anymore," he said, as he began to clean the malt-mixer to get it ready for the next order.

"Why not?" asked Joe.

"She stopped working here when she graduated from high school. Mr. Flowers said she went on to college."

"When was that?" asked Ben.

"Let's see. That was…1946, I think."

"Do you remember when Mrs. Flowers died?" asked Joe.

"Yeah, I remember that. Mr. Flowers said she had been so sick for a long time. He was sad though, but said it was a blessing."

"Did you ever hear him say what she died from?" asked Ben.

"Well, wait a minute. I do remember the doctor coming in here and I overheard the word "cancer." She might've died from that."

"Do you remember the doctor's name?" asked Joe.

"It was Dr. Baird. Everyone around here knows him."

The men thanked the young man for his time and gave him a nice tip. Before the two left, they informed him not to tell anyone they talked with him today. Homer concurred.

Outside the pharmacy, a light drizzle hung in the air as Ben tapped Joe on the shoulder.

"What is it?" he said, thinking his partner may have thought of something that could be related to the case.

"Don't forget," he said, pointing to the flower shop next door, and laughing at the irony of the drugstore's name. "It's Mother's Day."

Joe ended up getting a dozen red roses for his mother, and Ben did the same for his wife.

Ma Friday loved the roses. While Joe set the table for dinner that night, she hummed the Dick Jurgens song One Dozen Roses to herself as she put them into a vase, which was then placed in the center of the kitchen table. The house had no dining room—only two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and a narrow service porch off of the kitchen where the laundry sink and wringer washing machine were situated. Joe told her about Ben's son singing the M-O-T-H-E-R song and how Amy didn't like the one line about growing old. She chuckled and asked how Dorothy was doing and Joe said he hadn't seen her in a few days. Ma Friday said that they should invite her over for dinner later this week.

She then went on about the day, how she had just finished her spring-cleaning and was going to cook all week so that Joe could have decent meals when he came home from work while she was up in Renton, Washington. At this, Joe protested, explaining that she needn't go through all of that, but the 56-year-old woman persisted, saying that he and Ben ate at too many restaurants as it was. In her eyes, restaurant food was NG—No Good.

When Joe casually told her about his day, during their meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and fresh green beans, he talked about interviewing people at the drugstore, to which Ma Friday assumed he had ate there. She then reprimanded him about how eating in drugstores was worse than restaurants and if he kept this up he would get sick. When he informed her that all they had was a chocolate milkshake, she still shook her head. If that wasn't enough, she went on about how he needed his rest and if he kept eating food that was meant for kids and adolescents, and not getting enough sleep, he was going to wind up in the hospital. This drove Joe nuts, but he took it as he helped her with the dishes. For the rest of the night, Joe did his best to avoid his mother. He felt guilty, since it was still Mother's Day, but he couldn't help it. He wondered if other people went through this. He tried so many times to tell her to stop worrying about him and that he was twenty-eight years old, but it was no use.

As Joe lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, he kept thinking about the next day. They could call Evie and meet with her again to see if she knew who Rae Waterford was. Maybe she had a copy of her mother's obituary and that could tell them who they were. It would save him and Ben a trip to the public library. They could also contact Dr. Baird to see what he knew about Mrs. Flowers.

Joe then thought about calling Dorothy, but it was already after eleven. If she lived in her own apartment, he'd give her a call. The house had two extensions-one in the hall and the other in his room. He'd keep his voice low so he wouldn't disturb his mother. With his luck if he were to call now, that landlady of hers would answer and read him the riot act about calling so late. She had to work the next day too, but it would have been nice to hear her voice. Although it was a good idea his mother had tonight about inviting Dot over for dinner, Joe secretly hoped she wouldn't perturb him by throwing in quips about marriage or annoy him by bringing up the war.

He dreaded nights after the last ordeal. Joe had a hard time admitting it to himself, but he was almost afraid to fall asleep. He tried to think of everything else to get his mind off of what had occurred the night before, but it was hopeless. Now, he thought about seriously going to the Chief of Detectives, Thad Brown, and requesting that he and Ben work the night watch from here on out. Of course the man would ask why, and Joe couldn't come up with a rational reason. Perhaps some disgruntled citizen of Los Angeles would decide to go on a murderous rampage, thus calling he, Ben and the entire police force to throw a dragnet around the city. This could and has, in the past, taken many nights. It was often said that they could not go home until a case like that was solved. After working for hours without any breaks, Joe would be so tired, he'd fall into a deep sleep, and the war wouldn't be able to make its way into his dreams then. _Oh! This is ridiculous! I'm only thinking of myself! Goddammit, I need to sleep, but I can't!_

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains strong language and some violence.

Chapter Three

Joe told Ben of his ideas on Monday morning, while doing routine paperwork, about contacting Evie again and Dr. Baird. By two that afternoon, as it turned out, his thoughts from last night's restlessness came true—only it wasn't one disgruntled citizen—it had been several. The five-year-old case would have to be put on hold for the time being.

The dead body of a woman who looked to be in her early to mid-20s was located in an empty house in a new subdivision. Next to her lay a bloodied claw hammer to which the detectives presumed was the murder weapon. The realtor of the new housing development ranted and raved at Joe and Ben, saying how something like this would ruin his business and no one would want to buy a house where a murder had been committed. They discovered that the killing didn't take place in the house—the body had been dumped there. When they saw the deceased woman for the first time, they learned quickly that there hadn't been only one murder—but two. She had been about five months pregnant.

For the next couple of days, they delve into Missing Person's reports and when they found a match, Joe and Ben interviewed the person who filed it, who turned out to be the dead girl's mother. She informed them that when she found out her daughter had gotten pregnant, she demanded to know the name of the man she'd been with and that he'd better do the "right" thing and marry her. A row ensued and finally, her daughter broke down admitting that the man she had been seeing was already married with a wife and had two children.

Joe and Ben could piece together the rest of the story. It was an old and common one, unfortunately. Their guess was that when the young woman went to confront the man, another fight transpired and he killed her. However, mere guesses and hunches weren't actual proof.

Another Missing Person's report fell onto their table early Thursday morning, this time detailing about a man who seemed to have dropped out of sight. The wife had reported it and when Joe and Ben went to question her, she went on about an affair her husband had been having. She kept referring to the woman as a "hussy," "that bitch" or "that whore" and couldn't understand why he would stray after she gave him everything. She said she filed the Missing Person's report because the children kept asking where their father was and that her conscience was getting the better of her. As they left the residence, she told them that if they found her husband she hoped he would be dead, next to his whore.

Back at the office, they sent out a teletype of the missing man's description throughout California and surrounding states, finally receiving a phone call later in the afternoon. The Las Vegas police had picked up a man for speeding and called when they saw the teletype.

They were able to go home, shower, pack a change of clothes and eat a quick dinner before heading back to City Hall to check out the trip car. Joe wanted to return as soon as possible hoping they wouldn't have to stay in a motel. He told his mother he'd try to be back in time to see her off on the train to her brother's. He also wondered about cancelling tomorrow night's dinner with Dorothy, but Ma Friday said he should wait and see when he returned. She looked forward to having dinner with the both of them and said, in jest, that it would be their "last meal" together until she arrived back home on Saturday, May 29th.

At five-thirty that evening, they began the nearly 300 mile, five hour journey to Las Vegas. Joe puffed away on a Fatima while Ben griped about the rush hour traffic. If it wasn't the traffic, it was the car they were given—a Sahara tan 1940 Ford sedan that had survived the war years, but both weren't so sure it would be able to handle this trip. Joe was worried the car would overheat and constantly reminded Ben that the speed limit was 45 miles per hour. They had only been on the road for about an hour and a half, beginning on Highway 99, over to Route 66, and now on Highway 91, before his partner started on about being hungry. They were driving through Colton, California.

"Didn't Amy feed you before we left?" Joe asked, tapping out the last of the cigarette in the ashtray.

"Yeah, she did, but I always get hungry on car trips. What did you have, Joe?"

"Ma made beef stew. She's been in a cooking frenzy all week."

"What for?"

"She's going to visit her brother up north in Washington for a couple of weeks. I'm supposed to take her to Union Station on Saturday morning. That is, if we're back in time. She wants to make sure I have something good to eat, I guess. The other night she got on my nerves about me eating in restaurants again."

"You want me to come over to your house while your mother's gone? I could make you my Spanish omelet for breakfast."

"No, Ben," he said, with a sardonic smirk.

"I've done that before. Remember the last time your—"

"Please, do _not_ come over. I can take care of myself," said Joe, now fidgeting with his fedora that sat on his lap,

"But Joe, you can't just eat out of a can. I'll ask Amy to—"

" _No_ , Ben!"

"Well, there's no need to get testy!"

"As much as I appreciate your concern for my well-being while my mother is away, I _mean_ it—do _not_ come over! If I really wanted anyone else to make me breakfast, it would be Dorothy."

Ben laughed. "How do you know she can cook? She lives in a boarding house."

All Joe could do at that moment was give an exasperated sigh.

"I'll be over at eight in the morning on Sunday," said Ben, beaming.

"I won't answer the door," he emphatically replied.

It was then that Ben put out his hand to signal he was turning left onto Mount Vernon Avenue.

"You should've turned onto E Street," said Joe.

"I'm hungry," Ben grumpily replied, who then slammed on the brakes and yelled at the Studebaker in front of them. "Crazy woman driver! Why the hell can't you learn to put out your hand when you're going to turn?!"

"We passed a place called McDonald's Bar-B-Que back at the corner of 14th and E Street. Why didn't you stop there if you were so hungry?"

"No carhops."

"What?"

"There were no carhops."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I don't want to walk up to a window and get my food. I want someone to bring it to me."

"You are so hard to please, Ben. If you wanted a drive-in restaurant, we passed a place called Bell's Drive-In."

"I don't want a hot dog."

Ben suddenly swerved the car into the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant named Mitla's Café.

"We're eating here!" he said, as he grabbed his fedora from the backseat and opened the car door.

They gulped down two cups of strong black coffee while waiting for their dinner. A waitress brought Ben's order of six tacos, while Joe ate three. Feeling full and content after their meal, and before heading back onto Highway 91, they stopped at a Signal station and got a full tank of gas.

"Now, everybody's full! I think this old girl is going to make it!" announced Ben, after the attendant gave him the receipt.

All Joe could do was nod, hoping he was right.

In the next hour or so, Ben amused Joe about the time his son was born and how Amy put up a fight when the doctor insisted she should have the baby in a hospital rather than at home.

"She won that time," said Ben, snickering at the memory. "She had the boy at home. Her sister-in-law gave us a bassinet. Only we couldn't use it."

"Why not?"

"It had bedbugs."

Joe winced and the two of them fell silent. He dozed for a while until he felt the car speed up a little, to which Joe told Ben he'd better slow it to 35 if they didn't want the engine to overheat. Looking out the window, the desert sand and green cacti trailed by. It was still light enough, but the sun was fading. A wave of fatigue swept over him. Perhaps it had been the dinner or the fact that he was sleep-deprived, but whatever the reason, Joe's eyelids began to close.

There was an eerie stillness. Where was he? The car and Ben were gone. It looked like the desert with all of the sand, but why were the cacti moving? Some passed him by slowly, while others lay still on the terrain. Joe just kept moving forward and would crouch down to feel the sand on the ground and pick up something small. It must've been okay because he'd then put whatever he had found into a rusty, metal child's pail. He crawled around on the sand some more until he came across some dog tags. He picked them up but couldn't read them.

"Joe! Wake up! _Joe!"_ he heard someone calling him.

" _What!_ What is it?! Go away!" He was still half asleep, his mind in a fog, and felt very frightened and agitated.

Joe pushed the hand away that had been on his shoulder, shaking him awake. As he did so, he knocked his hat off his lap onto the floor. At first, he couldn't remember where they were and wondered why he and Ben were in a car, stopped on Highway 91 in the middle of the desert. His heart beat rapidly. He felt clammy and wordlessly thanked God he wasn't crying.

"Are you all right, Joe?" asked Ben with an alarmed look on his face.

"Why does everyone always ask me that?!" he said irately, as he picked up his fedora and hurled it into the back. "I get it from my mother… Please, not _you_ , too! I'm fine, goddammit, why don't you just leave me alone!" He felt so degraded and mortified at the thought of Ben seeing him fall apart. It was bad enough his mother had to endure the wrath of these nightmares—but now his partner had witnessed it. He hoped Ben wouldn't turn him in and say he was loony or something.

"Settle down, Joe. You must've had one hell of a bad dream."

"Start the car," he said, the dejection rising. As if continuing down the road would ease his pain.

"No, not until I—"

"Start the fucking car, _now_!" he erupted.

"Joe, what _is_ it? I've seen you mad before, but not like this. What were you dreaming about?"

"It's none of your damn business! Please, let's go!" At that moment, Joe wished he had that whiskey bottle, but it was hours and miles away on his closet shelf. And to top it off, he was on duty.

"I'm not driving anywhere until you tell me what's going on," Ben sounded stern—almost father-like. "You haven't been yourself lately."

They sat there, motionless, waiting.

"You want to know what I was dreaming about?" Joe said softly, but still with an edge in his voice.

"Yes."

"The war."

"What was your dream like?"

 _Why did Ben want to know? What did he care?_ Joe was still apprehensive about what he would tell his partner, fearful at what he might do or say upon hearing about it. He spoke slowly and carefully, not saying much, but enough in that he hoped it would satisfy his curiosity and ease off of the personal questions.

"I don't know. It was so…quiet. There were others around me. I don't know who," he said, realizing that the moving cactuses in the dream were indeed camouflaged soldiers. Joe omitted the part about how at first he'd seen moving cacti though. Ben would _really_ think he was crazy then.

"Have you had these kinds of dreams before?" Ben's voice still had that parental tone to it. After all, he was 48 years old and a father himself.

"Yes. My mother knows about them."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"I was crawling around, looking for something. I had a kid's pail in my hand. I don't know why I had it or where it came from. It was just there. When I'd find something, I'd put it in the pail. I found someone's dog tags."

"Who do you think they belonged to?"

"I _don't_ know!" Joe's voice began to rise again out of frustration and nervousness. "Quit asking so many questions. Come on, let's go!"

"You sure you're okay, now?"

"Yes!"

Ben started the car and eased back onto Highway 91. After a while, Joe took a handkerchief out of his pin-striped jacket pocket and did his best to clean his face. He rolled down the window a little ways and let the fresh air calm him down.

"How long was I asleep for?" Joe asked, now staring straight ahead,

"About ten minutes."

"I haven't been sleeping well lately," he confessed.

"That might be why you're having these nightmares."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"It was like that for me when I got back from France thirty years ago."

"What?" Joe sat up, surprised. "You were in the First World War?"

"Yeah, I was."

"I never knew that."

"It's not something I like to broadcast, but yes, I went over there in 1917. I was seventeen years old. When you're born in 1900 like me, people always know how old you are. When I got home from the war, everybody made such a big to-do about it. There were bands, parades, the works. But I realized something."

"What's that, Ben?"

"You can have a parade when you leave for war, and there'll most likely be one when you come back—if you're one of the lucky ones. But wars will always end in funerals…always."

"Yeah…"

"I would have nightmares. Moreso when I came back than I do now. Amy knows, of course, but never says anything, which is fine with me. Over time they'll fade, you'll see. It will happen to you, too."

Joe pondered for a while at what his partner just told him and then remembered something. His own father had also fought in the Great War. Maybe he went through the same things Ben did and now him. His mother seldom spoke of his father who had died when Joe was two years old. He had no memories of him.

"Thanks, Ben." Joe said just above a whisper.

"Yeah, okay."

And the subject was dropped.

After stopping at a greasy spoon restaurant for breakfast and filling up the car, they arrived at the police station in Las Vegas around 11 p.m. After a splash of cold water on the face, a hasty shave, teeth brushing, and hair combing, the daunting task of extraditing the murder suspect could begin. By 1 a.m. the three of them were ready to make the trek back to Los Angeles.

As they left the station with Joe and Ben flanking the man, gripping his arms, Joe coarsely told him, "I hope you didn't drink a lot of coffee because we aren't stopping." Thankfully, he had been fed a couple of hours before they showed up.

Joe drove this time, while Ben minded the arrestee in the back, whose wrists were handcuffed together behind his back. The ride was quiet as they passed through the desert; this time in the opposite direction. The suspect must've been sleep deprived as well because he eventually began to snore. At least he wasn't a talkative person. Overall, the ride through the remainder of Nevada was uneventful.

Joe felt grateful as they crossed the California state line, knowing they were getting closer to Los Angeles, City Hall, to home, a nice hot meal, to Dot, and to what he hoped would be a good night's sleep. It had better be after driving ten hours straight, not to mention working a full day before that. He was looking forward to the two weeks where he'd have the house to himself. If there wasn't a discordance within their work schedules, he and Dorothy could spend a lot of time together. He could have her over and she could stay as long as she wanted to….

Just then, the murder suspect rousted Joe out of his thoughts.

"Hey, Sergeant? Where's the fire?" he said.

 _What the hell was he talking about?_ And that was when Joe heard the siren, and saw the red light, too.

"Oh, shit!" he said, under his breath. _This can't be happening!_

"Oh, man!" said the perp. "This is gonna be good!"

"Oh, shut up!" said Ben, to the arrestee, who just grinned.

The California Highway Patrolman was only doing his job. Joe knew this. After all, he _had_ been going 55. His daydreaming made him anxious. On the way there, it was Joe who harped on Ben about the speed limit being 45. It was he who was concerned about the car overheating and perhaps it was luck or the cooler weather at night that this did not happen. Joe felt gracious to have a partner like Ben, who sat calmly, yet hunched over in the backseat, not uttering one spiteful word. He was kidding himself of course, because if they hadn't had their passenger, he'd never hear the end of it.

The CHP officer was a nice kid, though, not even twenty-one years old, more wide-eyed and fascinated with Joe's badge than adding another citation to his quota for the night. Before they went on their way, he asked to see Badge #714 again and Joe tactfully obliged, glancing over at Ben, knowing that he, too, was remembering their early days as patrol and traffic officers all those years ago.

The sun was up by the time they reached City Hall around seven that Friday morning. But this didn't mean their day was over. They still needed to interrogate the guy and have a stenographer take his statement. Then, the endless yet tediousness of paperwork would begin once again. While the suspect was being processed, fingerprinted, showered, and changed into prison clothes, Joe and Ben took the elevator up to the 8th Floor where the cafeteria was located and had breakfast.

Three hours later, in an interrogation room, the man confessed to murdering his mistress in his car with a claw hammer. He was so sick of her nagging him to marry her because she was pregnant. During the argument, he had discovered the claw hammer on the floor of the car, and in a fit of rage, hit her with it. After disposing of the body in the new house, he abandoned his car, not realizing that the license plate would be traced right back to him. But this never entered his mind, as he sprinted home to shower and change his clothes. While doing all of that, his wife apparently had been grocery shopping. The man threw away the soiled clothing he wore when committing the crime. He then walked to a U-Drive rental and fled the state, only to be pinched in Vegas for speeding. A stenographer was promptly summoned. Before he was hauled off to the jail, he bellowed and pointed at Joe, "Wait until everyone hears about me witnessing a copper being pulled over for speeding!" Joe glared at the perp, thinking, _You fucking son-of-a-bitch!_ He gave a hearty howl as he was led out of the room, but Captain Blaine Steve, who was right there the entire time, wasn't laughing.

"Yes, sir. No, sir," was all Joe responded to Captain Steve in his office, with the door shut. Joe sounded professional and polite, saying what he knew his superior wanted to hear. The captain then said he wanted him and Ben to get out of his sight until Monday, that is, until they completed the paperwork for the day. Just as he passed through the doorway of the Skipper's office, Joe turned toward his voice one last time.

"Oh, and Friday?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Slow down."

"Yes, sir."

By five, Joe phoned Dorothy at Georgia Street Juvenile, glad that she hadn't left yet for the day. He apologized saying he wouldn't be able to pick her up to take her over to his mother's for dinner like they had planned earlier in the week, but would it be all right if she took the streetcar instead? She told him that would be fine and he'd see her very soon. His mother told him, that afternoon, when he called to let her know he was back in town, that dinner would be ready by seven. He and Ben weren't able to leave City Hall until a quarter to seven after signing out. Ben remarked, as they descended the steps of the Main Street entrance that he was going to sleep around the clock. Joe added that he would do the same after taking his mother to the train station the next morning. Both of them had been up for a little over 36 hours straight.

Copyright © 2017 by Kristi N. Zanker

Words: 3,577

Total Words: 12,795

10


	4. Chapter 4

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains some strong language and mild sexual situations.

Chapter Four

As Joe ascended the concrete steps, suitcase in hand, he could hear through the screen door, Ma Friday and Dorothy talking from somewhere inside the house. Just as he was about to pull open the door, he heard his mother say, "…but Joe doesn't really talk about the war that much…." to which he yanked open and slammed it shut, albeit a little too hard. The smell of pot roast, although enticing to his growling stomach, was not able to curb his mood. Any happiness he had felt on the way home from work and upon mounting the first few steps up to the house instantly vanished as rage festered inside. After yesterday's collapse with Ben and his increasing overtiredness—Joe wasn't sure if or how he could handle a third person, especially Dorothy, finding out about his inner dilemmas about the war right now.

"Joseph? Is that you?" he heard Ma Friday call from the living room.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me," he said, trying to remain nonchalant, as he set his suitcase on the floor, while his keys clunked as they hit the message pad on the telephone table. _Who the hell else would it be?_ He thought to himself as he roughly set his fedora atop the hat rack. Opening the hall closet door, he put his .38 Special, holster, and handcuffs on the shelf. Next, he swiftly removed his pin-striped jacket and aggressively flung it down the hall near the bathroom door.

While loosening his tie, and unbuttoning two top buttons, Joe wandered into the living room to find his mother in her favorite blue flowered housedress, and Dorothy, still in her policewoman's uniform, seated next to one another on the davenport. The floor console radio played softly the popular tune, 'Now is the Hour'. On the coffee table before them lay open a photo album. Staring right up at Joe, upside-down from his vantage point, was his eight-year-old self, in that hideous Buster Brown look with those God-awful bangs, holding that school lunch pail.

"Hi, Ma…Dorothy. I see we've been looking at the photo album," he said, trying not to scowl at it.

"I was just showing Dorothy the old photos of you," answered Ma Friday. "She thought you were such a cute baby."

" _Ma!_ Don't torture her with that! Did you have to go back _that_ far?"

Now all he could feel was indignation and his face flush. The only baby picture of him—in his birthday suit on a braided rug—was a few pages before the Buster Brown one.

"Oh, it's okay, Joe!" chortled Dorothy. "I thought you were so adorable lying on that rug!"

"I don't want to be a rude host, but Ma, do I have a minute to take a shower before dinner's ready?" he asked, hoping for a quick exit and wondering if Dorothy would still be there after the disconcerting photo album, him with a five o'clock shadow, and rumpled clothing.

"Oh, go right ahead, Joseph! Dinner won't be ready for another half-hour. Come on, Dorothy, we'll set the table."

With that, he dashed into the hallway, retrieved his suitcase and ambled to the bedroom where he set it on the bed and stepped out of his shoes, kicking them over toward the shoeshine kit near the closet. Out in the hall again, Joe picked up his pin-striped jacket as he went into the bathroom and after shutting the door, threw it into the hamper that leaned against the wall. He turned on both the hot and cold water faucets, then the shower handle and let the water run, filling the room with steam while he stripped. After cautiously stepping into the claw-foot bathtub, Joe yanked the shower curtain around until he was closed in. Water cascaded all over as he tried to clear his mind and not think about the awkwardness in the living room just then or what his mother may have told Dorothy about him and the war before he arrived home.

Finding a cake of Ivory soap in the wire dish that hung over the side of the bathtub, and with a washcloth, Joe lathered, then rinsed, all the while chuckling to himself because he'd been in a lather for the past two days—no, make that the entire week. He ferociously squeezed out the washcloth, hoping to rid more anxiety before draping it over the side of the tub, next to the soap dish. For a moment, Joe stood still and let the water run all over him, doing its best to push away all of the anger and trepidation. The tube of Prell shampoo sat where it always did—on the windowsill and he thoroughly washed his hair.

After drying himself off and carefully climbing out of the bathtub, he grabbed his burgundy robe off of the hook on the back of the door and put it on, tying the sash around his waist. At the pedestal sink, Joe went to reach for his shave lotion, brush, and safety razor when he remembered he had left those items in his suitcase. He flung open the bathroom door, ran across the hall to his bedroom and located what he needed in the suitcase. Using his bath towel, Joe wiped off the bathroom mirror that stood above the sink and began the shaving process.

Afterward, he went into his bedroom and rifled through the dresser drawers for undershorts, t-shirt, and a pair of red socks. Joe then dashed to the closet and pulled a black and red buttoned-down checked shirt and black slacks off the hangers and began to dress. He could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. Hurriedly Joe cleaned up the bathroom and threw his towel and the rest of his dirty clothing in the hamper. The shower had invigorated him at least for the time being. What he really wanted to do was put on his pajamas and crawl right into bed, but he had to wait just a little longer.

He peeked at himself in the mirror one last time, making sure his hair was combed nice and parted correctly on the left. As Joe exited the bathroom, he could hear soft footsteps on the carpet runner approaching and was startled to find Dorothy in front of him. The hallway was fairly dark except for the glow of the light in the bathroom that tapered into the hall.

"Hi, Joe," she said quietly.

"Hi, Dot," he replied, with an instant grin. "You're still here after the fiasco with the photo album?"

"Of course, silly! I just told your mother I wanted to go freshen up. Dinner will be ready shortly."

"You look fine to me," he murmured, as he put his arms around her waist, hers around his neck and they respectfully kissed hello.

"When did you get here?" Joe asked, keeping his voice low. They now clasped each other's hands, intertwining their fingers.

"Around six-thirty. I took the Yellow car over."

"I'll take you home."

"Joe, you look exhausted."

"I'm not too tired to take you home," he whispered, planting a quick kiss on her forehead.

"How was your trip with Ben?"

"Oooh, it was exhausting," he sighed.

At that moment, Ma Friday called them to dinner.

As they ate, Joe delighted them with his brush with the law. Dorothy couldn't stop laughing and Ma Friday gave him an unsympathetic look.

"Don't look at me like that, Ma," he said. "I got an earful from Captain Steve this morning."

"Serves you right. What kind of example are you setting?"

"I'm going to pay the fine on Monday. But, please, stop looking at me like that. I felt guilty enough as it was. Besides, I'm only human. Ben and I had already worked twenty-four hours and we still had the rest of the day!"

"I told you to tell them they shouldn't make you work like that. You need your rest."

"Ma, I'll be getting plenty of rest tomorrow and Sunday. I have those days off. I'll go to bed as soon as I get back from taking you to the train station."

"Well, at least they gave you the weekend off."

Two hours later, after the dinner and dessert dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Ma Friday went to finish packing, while Joe and Dorothy sat in the living room. Two fresh cups of black coffee on coasters sat on the end table next to him.

"What time does her train leave tomorrow?" she asked, as he lit her cigarette.

"Ten," Joe replied, stifling a yawn as he picked up his cigarette from the slot in the ashtray. "How was your day?"

"Very busy. But I have Sunday off."

He liked that answer, giving her a slight smile, and gently kissed her. He set the cigarette back into the ashtray slot. While nuzzling her neck, and putting his arms around her waist, he murmured, "You had a busy day?"

"I spent most of it at Central Receiving with a 17-year-old girl and her nine month old baby. We were trying to find out why there were bruises on her daughter. She said she spanked her for crying too much and wasn't sure where the bruises came from. But I have my suspicions. She and her husband live with her mother who sounds like a shrew. When I came back to Georgia Street Juvenile, we discovered that a boy and girl were stealing lumber in a neighborhood where a new house was being built."

The next thing Joe heard was a high-pitched female voice singing how D-U-Z does everything and Harlow Wilcox announcing for the game show _Truth or Consequences_ with Ralph Edwards. "Hello! We've been waiting for you!" He blinked his eyes and tried to think. _Why is the big radio in my room when I already have the small one next to my bed? How did the window get over on that wall?_ _And how the hell did my bed shrink from a double to a twin?_ Then, it hit him. He wasn't in his bedroom at all. Joe realized he must've fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room. Another telltale sign was that a blue quilt was draped over him and he was still in his clothes. He could hear someone moving about the house. _Probably Ma getting everything ready before we have to leave for Union Station,_ his mind went on. He wondered when Dorothy left, and frowned, feeling like a heel because he didn't get to take her home, not to mention embarrassed because he had fallen asleep on her. The last thing he remembered was sitting next to her on the couch telling him about her day. Suddenly, he felt frantic, perturbed that his mother may have unintentionally said something about him, not unlike the comment he overheard about his lack of conversation about the war yesterday.

"Wake up, Sleepyhead," said Dorothy, coming toward him with a steaming cup of coffee.

She set it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him. Joe was sure she wore her uniform before. Now, she was in a cream colored dress with tiny red polka dots. _What the hell's going on?_ His mind was in a daze. When he tried to sit up, he winced in agony, his body protested, aching from sitting ten hours in the car and laying still on a lumpy couch with the springs jabbing him in the back.

"What are you still doing here?" he said, surprised, and wondered where Ma Friday was.

"Joe…you've been out for nearly twelve hours."

" _What?!_ _Twelve_ hours!"

He tossed the quilt aside, ignoring the pains as he stood up with a start.

"Sit down, Joe," said Dorothy, standing in front of him now, putting a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him until he did so. She then handed him the coffee. He took a drink, then another.

"I need to take Ma to Union Station," he said, setting the cup down.

"Her train left this morning," she said, as she went around to the other side of the coffee table, moved the quilt, and sat next to him.

"What?! What time is it?" Joe rubbed his eyes.

"It's Saturday. Almost quarter to nine. You fell asleep on me and I had to untangle you. Your mother came in and saw what had happened and we let you sleep. I put the quilt over you. You were out like a light."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" He turned away from her.

"Don't be. You'd been up for over 36 hours. You had to crash sometime. I knew you wouldn't be able to take me home, so I took the streetcar. I went to work, came home, changed and now I'm here."

"I better call Union Station just to make sure her train got off on time," he said, as he stood up and began walking to the telephone, only to stop and turn to her after realizing something.

"How did you get in here if Ma already left? The door would've been locked."

"She told me where the key was."

"Oh."

Joe turned and proceeded to the telephone where he dialed the number. He was relieved to find out that the train had left on time, his mother was safe, and was on her way up north. After he hung up the phone, he called to Dorothy, saying he'd be right back and went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, still feeling ashamed about not being there for his mother and falling asleep before Dorothy left. But nothing seemed to bother her. They were in the same line of work, he had to remind himself. Dorothy had seen her share of heartache, turmoil, and neglect working at Georgia Street Juvenile. She knew the ropes, was aware of the irrational schedules when you'd get off duty, only to return a couple of hours later because of a double homicide, the sleeplessness, the many facets of emotion the job could put one through, only you could never show it. Ben was right; she was certainly sensible and he felt fortunate that she had a great sense of humor about his mother's insinuations about marriage, and that they seemed to get along very well. The nervousness began to ease as Joe prepared to shave. After all, he wanted to look his best. Then another thought crossed his mind.

They had the entire house to themselves—for two weeks. His mother rarely, if ever, went on a lengthy vacation like this. If Dorothy wanted to, and he wasn't so sure, she could spend the entire night with him. They were well passed age 21. It had been so long though, since the last—encounter. Ever since he got back, something kept him away from companionship and intimacy with a girl. _It has been years…_ _You never forget how…_ _Would I have to make a hasty trip to the drugstore tonight?_ _If we were to... And later on, when we didn't have the house to ourselves anymore, when would we again?_ _Certainly not here, not at the boarding house… We'd have to wait until she got her own apartment and who knows when that would be with the housing shortage…_

This momentary idea with Dorothy excited him a little, but then quickly dissipated. He didn't want another outburst like the other day with Ben. If that were the case, he'd have to tell her something about the war, if his mother hadn't inadvertently already done so. But wait…if she had said something, why would Dorothy be here right this minute? Ben didn't think he was crazy—but she might think so. He decided the idea wasn't such a good one after all—even wondered if part of the reason he was shy about marriage was because of the war. His reasoning didn't seem as significant as someone who was mortified by having relations with a girl or even his wife only to find out they were impotent due to the war—but _that_ wasn't his problem. Other veterans got married. Surely their wives knew something. They were okay…or seemed to be.

Twenty minutes later, he went back into the living room and sat next to Dorothy. He put his arm around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I have beef stew heating up for us. I just turned it on. Your mother made so much food. You should see the icebox."

"Ma told me she was going to cook all week. She got on me about eating in restaurants. But let's see the icebox."

They strolled into the kitchen and when Joe opened the door, he was dumbfounded to see stacks of Anchor Hocking's "FireKing" line of refrigerator dishes piled from lid to lid on top of one another. It was enough to last for nearly two weeks. Dorothy handed him sheets of paper, in his mother's flawless penmanship, detailing the contents in each dish. Along with that, were explicit instructions on how to heat the food, whether on the stovetop or in the oven, and for the correct length of time.

"Now I know where you get your meticulousness from," chuckled Dorothy, handing him one of the sheets of paper. "Look at this."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, she even wrote down about opening the oven door when the food was ready or turning off the burner on the stove before bringing it to the table!" Joe said with astonishment as he closed the refrigerator door.

Dorothy continued to snicker. "Remember when we had that Bar-B-Que? It was when I first met your mother."

"How could I forget? She kept bringing up marriage in her sutble way."

"And I told you it was her motherly instincts. I said that someone had to look after you," she purred, softly. "Now, it's my turn."

The two of them stood in the middle of the kitchen kissing with each second becoming more intense with tongues heartily invited. Their hands roamed over each other with his caressing her neck, shoulder, and sliding to her breast, while hers kneaded his sore, tense back. He gave a soft sigh of desire, letting her know what she was doing felt so damn good. This gave him a stirring that he knew she felt too. They were standing close enough. He found her choice of perfume, _Tabu,_ intoxicating as well. It was then the phone rang,

"Joe," she murmured.

"I hear it," he said, cursing to himself under his breath as he let go of her to answer it. "It better not be the office!"

He strode over to the table in the hall and grabbed the receiver _. "Hello!"_ he barked and listened.

It was the telegraph office. They had a wire for him from his mother who wrote to say that she was at Uncle George's in Renton and that there was no need for a reply. "Okay, thank you," he said, this time sounding more professional, before replacing the receiver in the cradle. Back in the kitchen, he told Dorothy about the telegram and she announced that dinner was ready.

Once the dishes were put up for the night, they found themselves back in the living room, sorting through the records that were in the cabinet with the Victrola. Joe sat on the floor, with Dorothy next to him, reading each song title. He'd get up to wind the machine and play one Dorothy wanted to hear. Most were popular numbers from their high school days like 'My Reverie,' 'The Man with the Mandolin,' 'Begin the Beguine,' 'Hawaiian War Chant,' 'Boogie Woogie,' 'Stompin' at the Savoy,' 'Oh! Johnny, Oh!,' while others were nearly twenty years or older like 'Diane,' 'Milenberg Joys,' 'I'm Always Chasing Rainbows,' Frenesi,' and even 'Cohen on the Telephone' to which Joe retorted, "Ma still has _this_?!" as Dorothy giggled. The oldest ones had belonged to Joe's Aunt Mary who passed away some years ago. It was her house they were living in now.

"This one is Ma's favorite," he told her, after hearing, 'I'll See You in My Dreams.'

Joe closed the door to the Victrola cabinet, after putting the last record away, and turned on the radio. When the tubes warmed up, strains of Margaret Whiting's rendition of the love song Symphony filled the room. That was when she put her arms around him, slowly swaying, not really dancing to the dreamy song. The kissing that had begun in the kitchen resumed only more fervent this time.

"I'm so glad you're here," whispered Joe, as he held her tighter, wanting to feel every bit of her.

He could not explain how he felt. He guessed that only those in war would understand how it was, not being with or around women for a lengthy period of time. And to feel them next to you, kiss you, touch you. It was like that with anything though—sleeping in a bed with the sheets pulled up around you after lying in a leaky tent or deep in a muddy foxhole for months on end, taking a shower—even if it was a cold one, but a bonus if it had been hot water to rinse off the filth, blood, and stench of death. You realize you take a lot of mundane things for granted. And now, he knew exactly what he wanted, but he wasn't entirely sure she wanted the same thing.

"I haven't seen you all week," she said quietly. "We're finally _alone_."

"Yes," he whispered, kissing her mouth and trailing to her neck, but then stopped and stared at her, feeling the nerves begin to wrangle inside him, among other things, about what he'd say next. and how. He didn't want to go too far and reach the point of no return.

"What is it?" she asked, as she rested her head against his chest. His arms wrapped securely around her, his fingers lazily caressing her hair.

"Are you sure you…I mean, do you want…," _Oh, hell! Why was this so hard?! It was as bad as talking about the war, for Christ's sake!_

"Yes, Joe," she said, her voice sultry and low as she looked at him.

"Well…first…first, I need to make a trip to the drugstore. We can swing by your place and you can pack up some things."

"We don't need to go to the drugstore."

Joe raised an eyebrow, awaiting her reason, only to be rudely interrupted by a loud incessant knocking at the front door. Arousal instantly faded as utter annoyance crept up. He tensed at the continuous noise as he lividly sighed. _What now?_ _Who the hell could that be?!_

"Take it easy, Joe," said Dorothy, stroking his hair and kissed him gently. "You take care of this and I'll go get ready."

"All right," he muttered.

As he briskly walked out of the living room, he saw Dorothy reach for her purse out of the corner of his eye. He heard her close the bathroom door as he wrenched open the front door to find someone he did not recognize as one of the regular neighbors.

The middle-aged man launched into an irate monologue about how he had just moved into the neighborhood last week, only to find out his car was stolen after leaving it parked on the street in front of his house. The newcomer had quickly learned that a police officer lived in the house caddy-corner from him. When Joe did his best to calmly explain that the guy needed to make out an Auto-Theft report, this caused him to snarl some more which vexed Joe nearly to the limit. The man ranted and raved saying it was his duty to help citizens in trouble. When he tried to explain once again that he worked out of Homicide Bureau and not Auto-Theft, this only angered them still. What little patience he had left for this insolent new neighbor, Joe excused himself and went over to the telephone table, tore off an empty piece of paper from the message pad, and scribbled down the number this bitter person needed to call. The man insisted Joe make the call himself since that was part of his job. Inside, he was seething, as the neighbor continued to rebuke him, saying he was going to report him and have his job. When Joe asked for the reason he thought his car was stolen, the man stopped in mid-sentence and suddenly realized he had left the keys in the ignition. The outside light above the front door, streamed onto his now severely reddened face and Joe tersely told him to make that call. If he wasn't so mad right now, he would've roared with laughter once the door was shut and was sure the damn fool was out of earshot.

"Why can't people leave me alone for five minutes!" he said, as he vigorously went into the kitchen, muttering to himself about how dare "that lousy son-of-a-bitch tell _me_ what to do" and at that moment loathed the neighbors for notifying this arrogant bastard of the resident cop. Joe got out a bottle of beer and slammed the refrigerator door shut. Next, he flung open drawers, trying to locate a bottle opener. And when he couldn't find one, he'd bang it shut, taking his anger out on the kitchen drawers. He went on about how people were allowed to vent out their frustrations to them, but _they_ could never do so.

"It's not my fault he left his goddamned keys in the ignition!" He threw up his hands in disgust.

When he whirled around to double check one of the drawers, he wasn't expecting to see Dorothy there, holding up the bottle-opener in her hand.

"Are you through?" she asked, as he leaned on the countertop, feeling so ashamed for his outburst in front of her just then.

"Oh, Honey…" All he could do at that moment was shake his head, embarrassment rising.

She wordlessly took the bottle from him and opened it. Before he took a drink, he offered her some and she gladly accepted.

"If he'd arrived a little later, we would've been too busy to hear anything," said Dorothy with a smirk on her face and winking at him.

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker


	5. Chapter 5

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains some adult themes and sexual situations.

Chapter Five

The next morning, Joe stood before the screen door, Fatima perched in his right hand between his index and middle fingers, watching as the ribbon of smoke wove upward vaporizing in the warm inviting May breeze. In his pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, he scanned the front yard for the newspaper. _Where did that paperboy throw it this time?_ Coffee permeated throughout the house, while the radio faintly played a morning music hour. He felt so serene and at the same time euphoric after last night. He couldn't recall the last time he had felt this good. On the plus side, he had had a dreamless sleep.

Evoking the previous night's events in his mind, he smiled to himself, even though it hadn't started out well. After the unpleasantness with the neighbor, his flare-up in the kitchen, composure seemed to be out of reach, much to Joe's dismay. Things did settle down eventually and without a word, he took Dorothy's hand and led the way to his bedroom.

While Joe was arguing with the enraged ten-thirty visitor, one of the things she'd done was turn down the bed and lay a yellow bath towel in the middle. She had also closed the draperies. The lamp on the nightstand, next to the radio playing, low was turned on with the lacy shade creating a faint glow throughout the room.

He wasn't sure if it was the impending eagerness of what was in store mixed with sheer nervousness, or the fact that he hadn't bedded a girl in six years. But whatever the reason, much to Joe's chagrin, he ended up climaxing too soon for his likening. Dorothy tried to console him, saying that she too hadn't been with anyone since her fiancé and not to feel so bad about it. Her words fell on deaf ears as he berated himself, that is, until she threatened to leave. His mood changed quickly with him apologizing profusely. Moments later they both lay cuddling one another until the urge struck again.

In their choices of profession, albeit tedious, routine, and wearisome at times, the audacity of viciousness, bloodthirstiness, despondency, and harrowing ways human beings can and will mutilate or slaughter one another was simply incomprehensible. While being a detective sergeant with the Homicide Bureau wasn't like the war with days, weeks, and even months of unremitting carnage, it could be sporadic one week and persistent the next with a killing spree somewhere in the city. The general public was, of course, unaware of the amount of murders handled on a regular basis. When you were unable to adhere to their incredulous timeframe, more outrage from both parties were thrown In your direction. And you couldn't rant and rave about it either.

With all the two of them endured while on the job, the awaiting need and want to be held and caressed was so strong that it nearly terrified Joe who fretted he was being too rough while caught in the moment. But there was no cry of distress from Dorothy, only delectation as he thrusted hard while teasing by not giving in; enjoying her beg and writhe beneath him until his body couldn't take it anymore. The only time she let out a wince of pain was when he entered her the first time—a reminder that it had been a long while. Now, he was able to control his actions and go slow until the time was right.

When the trembling subsided, Joe collapsed from sheer sensual exhaustion onto her as she ran her fingers through the dark tufts of his hair. For once, he had been shaking, breathing heavy, and sweating not due to nightmares of the war, but from a damned good lay. No, it wasn't only that, not this time. It was more meaningful. Joe couldn't recall, ever, when it had felt like the night before. In between sprinkled kisses and gentle hugs, words were spoken softly in that only lovers would understand.

It was midnight by then and that was when Joe got up to take a shower. He was pleasantly surprised to find Dorothy pulling the shower curtain and joining him where they soaped each other, finding delicate areas that made them squirm, and chuckle with delight, rinsed while kissing and licking, tasting the water as it streamed down, and finally drying off with a large blue bath towel. At this time, they both stood outside the bathtub as Joe encircled the towel around both himself and Dorothy as they carefully went back into the bedroom, almost engaging in round three of bliss, but tiredness won.

After the two of them were dressed each in a pair of his pajamas, the ever immaculate Joe began to pick up soiled clothing, both towels, and into the laundry hamper they went. He turned off the light and the radio that had continued to produce static since going off the air forty-five minutes earlier.

Now, Joe could hear Dorothy separate eggs into a glass bowl and whisk together ingredients what he guessed was scrambled eggs. If he could sing, and everyone knew he couldn't, he'd burst into song. Instead, he whistled the refrain to Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin' from the musical _Oklahoma!_ as he meandered into the kitchen to find Dorothy at the stove, who looked up with a grin and then went back to what she had been doing. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter where a piping hot cup of coffee stood next to it. He took a few sips and then set the mug down before moving toward the stove.

Giving her a hug from behind, he pushed back some of her hair and kissed her cheek, trailing to her neck, and whispered into her ear, "Thank you for last night, Dot."

She had to stop whisking and set the bowl on the countertop because of Joe's distractive hands where one playfully kneaded a breast, while the other floated past her waist, over the curve of her hip, brushed her thigh, and in between her legs. That was when she gasped and pushed his hand away, turning to face him.

"How am I supposed to make you breakfast?" she said, circling her arms around his neck and giving him a hearty good morning kiss.

"Your curves all disappeared," he said, into her hair while tugging on the sleeve, indicating to how his pajamas hung flaccidly on her, hiding everything.

"I don't plan on being in these too much longer," she purred. "But first, we have to eat." He reluctantly let go of her to start the toast.

Joe did something he had never done before in his life. This time he wasn't sick and home from school. He spent most of the day in bed, only halting their exploration, playfulness, and passion for the actual meals of lunch and dinner and to shower once more with Dorothy. The next day was a regular work day and they each needed to get ready for it. He knew he was supposed to mow the lawn, but that could wait another day until he returned home—if at a decent hour. Ma Friday's flowers had to be watered again, but one more day wouldn't hurt, would it? After all, it wasn't August, it was still May.

They ate dinner with the game show _Take It or Leave It_ on in the background. Dorothy had heated up another one of Ma Friday's cuisines in the refrigerator dishes. This time it was spaghetti and meatballs. There was plenty left for another meal, along with the beef stew they had yesterday. They washed and put away the day's dishes. Both snuggled on the couch and by the time _The Jack Benny Program_ went off at 9:30, it was time to take Dorothy back to the boarding house.

When he parked the car in the driveway, he asked silently, "No regrets?"

"No regrets."

"I'll call you later in the week."

"I'll be waiting and thinking about you."

"I'll miss you."

They patiently kissed goodbye before Joe walked her to the front door. After giving her a light kiss goodnight, he watched as she went inside, her silhouette casting a shadow on the other side of the curtain. He stood there until he couldn't see it anymore.

Another Monday, another endless pile of paperwork awaited Joe and Ben when they arrived in Room 42. But before that, Joe took care of the speeding ticket he received last Friday morning.

"You look rested," remarked Ben, as he logged both of them in.

"I am," Joe replied. _Oh man, am I ever rested!_

Once they made a dent into the paperwork, Joe thought they should talk with Evie Flowers again to see if she knew who Rae Waterford was and if she had a copy of her mother's obituary. Ben agreed and Joe dialed the boarding house where the girl lived. Evie said they could come by anytime until two in the afternoon. She had a three o'clock class.

The boarding house where Evie Flowers lived was, at one time, a large, looming Victorian home occupied by a wealthy family who had numerous live-in servants. The family was long gone from the premises and during the war the entire place was converted into a boarding house. This process continued afterward in an attempt to ease the ever-growing housing shortage problem. Large homes that had been built around the turn of the century were remodeled like this or converted into apartments. When an abundance of college students emerged, thanks to the G.I. Bill, the landlady who now owned the place changed the newspaper advertisement to pertain only to college students, including co-eds. Those who came a ways from their hometown needed a place to live. The rent was cheaper than most in that the tenants chipped in with the upkeep and housework on a regular basis. Rumors floated around the campus about dormitories being built in the future, but for now, a room at a boarding house was considered home for the time being to a girl like Evie.

When they knocked on the front door, Evie answered, clad in rolled-up dungarees and a man's button-down white shirt, untucked. She wore a red bandana over her head. They were surprised at her unkempt appearance, but realized the reason why once they stepped into the foyer. Along the wall lay a rolled up Oriental rug. They both removed their hats.

"I'm helping out with the spring-cleaning," she said, leading them into the living room where it appeared she had been dusting the furniture. "Do you mind if I continue as we talk? I want to get as much done as possible before I have to get ready for my class this afternoon."

"Yes, that's okay," said Joe. "We just have a couple more questions to ask you."

"All right," replied Evie as she grabbed the glass bottle of Johnson's Cream Wax off of the end table and poured a little into the rag she now held in her other hand.

"We were wondering if you had a copy of your mother's obituary," said Ben.

"Yes, I have."

"Do you mind if we take a look at it?" asked Joe.

"Sure. Let me go get it," she answered, setting down the rag and bottle on the coffee table and ran up the stairs.

"Did you see how she was dressed?" asked Ben.

"Yeah."

"Kids these days. When I was growing up, my sisters wore dresses while cleaning the house."

"Other college kids were dressed like her. I saw them as we drove through the neighborhood."

"I hope it doesn't catch on."

"Dorothy said the high school crowds dress like that too after school."

They heard footsteps descending the stairs and Evie appeared into the room, holding a rectangular piece of newspaper.

"Here it is," she said, handing it to Joe.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, and glancing at it. Two things stuck out as he skimmed the page. Evie's middle name was Rae and Waterford was her mother's maiden name. Well, they had figured out who Rae Waterford, or rather, who she wasn't. "This'll help us out a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Do you mind if we hang on to this? We'll return it to you when we're through with the investigation," said Joe.

"That's fine."

"If we have any further questions, we'll give you a call," explained Ben.

"Here's another one of our cards in case you think of anything else." said Joe, reaching into his front jacket pocket and retrieving a business card.

"Okay," she said, taking the card from Joe and putting it into the front pocket of her dungarees. "Before you leave, could you help me with something?"

"What's that?" asked Joe, putting on his fedora. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben do the same.

"Would you help me move the Oriental rug in the hallway out to the backyard? One of my chores today is to beat the rug."

"Sure, we'll help you with that. Just lead the way," said Ben.

Back in the foyer, Joe took one end of the Oriental rug while Ben lifted the other and followed Evie down the hallway, through the kitchen, passed a back winding staircase to the second floor that was once used only by servants, and out to the sprawling backyard where an empty closeline hung. They draped it over the line.

"Thank you. That's a big help. Some boys were supposed to be over later on, but…"

"It's no trouble, Miss," said Joe. "I helped my mother with her spring-cleaning two weeks ago. I carried out the rugs."

As they walked back to 80-K, which had been parked on the street, they could hear Evie whacking the carpet with the wire metal tool.

"A baseball bat works well, too," said Ben, opening the door to the driver's side. "That's what Amy uses."

"We now know who Rae Waterford is," said Joe, after Ben started the engine.

"Who's she?" he asked, before leaving.

"She isn't anybody. See for yourself," replied Joe, handing him the obituary.

"Well, that druggist was pretty clever," he replied, after reading it.

"Yeah, it brings us closer. But not close enough," said Joe, carefully folding up the obituary again and putting it into the inside pocket.

Mr. Flowers had been telling the truth about following the orders in regards to the poison register. He had to write someone down when dealing with the arsenic. He only thought he was clever by creating an alias. Since it was him who filled out the registry in the first place, there was no need to visit Don Meyer for a handwriting analysis. They knew it was the druggist. But they needed more evidence.

"Let's see what Dr. Baird has to say," said Ben as he careened into traffic.

When the two of them arrived at Dr. Baird's office; after introducing themselves, the secretary informed them that he was on a house call and would be back shortly. They took a seat in the waiting area as far away as they could get from the sneezing man with the hacking cough.

"Look at these magazines, Joe," said Ben, holding up an April 22, 1940 issue of _Time,_ opened to a page that featured an article about _Fibber McGee and Molly_. "Doctors never seem to update their subscriptions."

"Uh huh," said Joe, thumbing through a March 22, 1947 copy of _Collier's_ , briefly pausing at the article about Relief checks. "At least this one's only a little over a year old." He closed the magazine, set it aside, and picked up another, mindlessly paging through it. Inside, he shuddered at the memories of his childhood in the '20s living in the Bunker Hill section of the city over two decades ago. That had been when he and his mother were on Relief. He was always thankful for how things turned out for them upon moving in and living with Aunt Mary when she still owned the house on Collis Avenue.

Just then, the receptionist told them that they could meet with Dr. Baird. They followed her into the office where a middle-aged man sat behind the desk. Badges and I.D.'s were produced and Joe explained that they were on a routine check of the poison registers in the neighborhood and his name had been brought up at Flower's Pharmacy.

"Are you insinuating that Mrs. Flowers was poisoned?" asked Dr. Baird, flabbergasted.

"We're not insinuating anything, but when we hear something like this, it's our job to check it out," said Joe, as annoyance crept up tangled with nervousness in hopes that they could receive valuable information.

"How did Mrs. Flowers pass away?" asked Ben, sounding more sympathetic and polite to ease the tension.

"She had cancer," the doctor sighed, leaned back into his chair, lit a Pall Mall, and took a drag. "I'd go over to the house once a week—several if I was needed. I prescribed medication to ease the pain because the cancer had begun to affect her spine."

"Who gave her the medication?" asked Ben.

"I would when I'd be there," Dr. Baird answered. "Otherwise, Evie, Bertram's daughter, would give it to her. I put her on a bland diet. Evie would feed her. Obviously, she couldn't leave her room."

"Did Mr. Flowers ever give her the medication?" asked Joe.

"Yes, at night, if he was home. Otherwise, Evie gave it to her then as well," replied Dr. Baird.

"How long did this go on for?" asked Ben.

"For several months until she died."

"Was an autopsy performed after her death?" inquired Joe.

"No, why would there've been? That poor woman suffered tremendously. If you ask me, it was a blessing when she passed away. She was in so much pain. And no, I do not believe she was poisoned. The very idea…ludicrous!"

It was the same thing that Homer Franklin, the soda jerk, had overheard five years earlier. Both men were a little disappointed when leaving, but satisfied with the doctor's responses, even though they already knew most of them. Leads could be that way sometimes.

When they returned to the City Hall, after having a quick lunch at the Federal Café, Captain Steve informed them of a call he had received from Dr. Sebastian at Central Receiving Hospital. A woman had been brought in complaining of severe abdominal pain. Tests had been run and according to the results the woman had been poisoned with arsenic. Luckily, it hadn't been a lethal dose. He said this one could be tied with their case somehow.

In the patient's room, the woman introduced herself as Gladys Avery, a matronly stocky woman in her late 40s. Right away, they learned she loved to talk.

"Sergeant Friday, Sergeant Romero, I was sitting here thinking about how often this has happened," she said. "I'm a widow, you see. My husband passed away ten years ago. He was a construction worker. Had an accident. Well, anyway, I've been seeing this man for several years now—about four. He's a widow too. Lately, within the past few months, I've been having these awful stomach cramps and getting sick. Then, I realized, I only had them after a dinner date with him."

"Did you go out to eat?" asked Ben.

"Oh, sometimes. I thought it might've been ptomaine poisoning, but I wasn't sure. I have a stomach made of iron, I've been told. After last night, I'm inclined to believe them. I'm still here! But you know what people say about restaurants."

"Yes, ma'am," said Joe, cringing at Ma Friday's recent scolding about them. "Where was this last date at?"

"His house," she replied. "He's an excellent cook. He had to learn after his wife passed away. I don't know. When the doctor told me there had been arsenic in my system, I just couldn't believe it!"

At that moment, a nurse in an impeccable starch white uniform came in to check Gladys' vitals. Finally, they had a chance to browse through her chart that Dr. Sebastian had handed to Joe before leaving the room.

"Ben," he said, pointing at an all-too familiar name on the page. "Do you see that?"

"Yeah, it's our druggist, Bertram Flowers."

"Let's see if he's her boyfriend."

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker

To Be Continued...


	6. Chapter 6

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains some strong language, adult themes, and violence.

Chapter Six

When the nurse left the room, Joe asked Gladys the name of her boyfriend. When she gave the inevitable answer, both detectives wondered if the druggist knew of her being at the hospital.

"No, I didn't have time to phone him," she replied.

"Do us a favor and don't tell him you were here or that you've spoken with us," said Ben.

"What? Why?"

"We have reason to believe he may have tried to poison someone else," explained Joe. "So, _please_ , not a word to him."

"Well, okay. I can't believe he'd deliberately do something like that. I have my faults, but he's the nicest man…!" her voice trailed off.

"Maybe you could help us," said Joe.

"Me? Oh, I don't know," Gladys replied, looking surprised at the notion.

"When you have another dinner date with Mr. Flowers, make sure it's at his house. Have you met his daughter Evie?" asked Joe.

"Oh yes, she's a sweet girl. She lives near the college, but she'll come over for dinner sometimes on a weekends."

"Okay. When you feel better, try to make another dinner date with him. Once you have, call MIchigan-5211, extension 2521, and ask for Ben or I. Here's our card."

"All right," she said, taking the business card from Joe.

"Let us know when you plan on meeting with him again and we'll tell what you need to do," said Joe.

"What if he finds out?"

"He won't. Don't say anything about being here. Act like everything is normal," answered Ben.

Before they left, Joe repeated, "Remember, make sure it's for dinner at his house."

Gladys nodded.

Arriving back in Homicide Bureau, they briefed Captain Steve on their slow, but useful progress. They ran down an idea they discussed on the way back to City Hall involving Gladys and Evie getting a sample of the possible tainted food to them. He agreed with their proposal, but the wait would have to continue until they heard when the actual dinner date would be.

A hot-shot call came in at that moment and for the time being, the case of Bertram Flowers, was again put on hold. In the coming days, a series of cases needed immediate attention. A woman killed her husband for insurance, the dead body of a showgirl was found in a seedy hotel in the skid row district, a husband in a drunken fit of rage pushed his wife down a flight a stairs, thus killing her, a man, unaware he was dealing with an illegal gambling ring, was stabbed to death after winning a large sum of money in a poker game, and inside a small ranch home, the dead body of a young man was found that ended up being a suicide. A veteran officer around Ben's age quipped that the week had reminded him of a similar one in the spring of 1937 that had been appropriately, yet morbidly referred to as "Murder Week." Ben sardonically recalled it with fond memories.

There were times when they could only go home to shower and eat a quick meal. Joe was ever appreciative of Ma Friday's dinners. He wouldn't always have the time to heat them up, so he just ate everything cold right out of the dish—as he stared out the kitchen window where the grass beckoned to be mowed and his mother's flowers wilted with sorrow. Other nights, in a hurry, he'd open a can of soup and eat it right out of the can itself, and drink the milk straight from the bottle. This left less dishes in the sink that way.

When the working hours piled on, Joe and Ben were eventually given time to sleep even if it was only four or five hours after working twenty-four to thirty. He was equally fortunate that no nightmares invaded his much needed forty winks.

But on Monday, May 24th, as Joe stood at the entrance of the closet, frowning, he had to admit to himself that he was running out of clean clothes—at least for work. He didn't want to attempt to tangle with the monstrosity wringer washing machine. Besides, he could never seem to remember when his mother added the bluing to the water. She always sent out his suits to be dry-cleaned, but he couldn't recall which facility Ma Friday patronized each week. In the bathroom, he dumped the contents out of the hamper and set aside all of his sport jackets and trousers. He scooped up the three suits and put them by the door. Of course, he could also buy a couple of new white shirts. A button had popped off the one he just put on—his last clean one. It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been the one at the end of the shirt, but it had to be right in the middle for anyone to see, even with a jacket and tie on. Hoping that if he positioned the tie-clip just right, no one would notice.

The dress code, even for plainclothes detectives, was strict. It didn't matter if it was 95 degrees outside—a suit jacket and tie were required with the starched white long-sleeved button-down shirt, pressed slacks, shined shoes, and a matching fedora. His mother taught him how to sew, but he didn't have the patience. Maybe he could ask Dorothy for help. He hadn't even seen or spoken to her since their last time together a week ago.

Two days earlier, on Saturday morning, Joe almost knocked over the milk bottles as he rushed out the front door to his car, only losing a few more minutes by carefully putting them in the icebox, not wanting to repeat the disaster that had occurred in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. He was thankful just two had been standing there. Ma Friday told Joe before going on her trip that she had left a note in one of the empty bottles, explaining for the milkman to leave only two bottles rather than the usual four during the time she was gone. He had forgotten it had been Saturday, which meant leaving the empty ones in the metal crate outside the house the night before. The crate still sat on the service porch. He'd remembered to do this Monday night for Tuesday's delivery, but it had slipped his mind this time. He'd do his best to remember to leave the empties in the crate and take it out tonight since the next day was Tuesday. Before heading to the office, he dropped off his clothing at a Chinese laundry nearest to the City Hall. He'd worry about his shirts and the rest of the laundry later. It was 8:06 when he opened the door to Room 42.

"Hi, Joe," said Ben, pointing at him. "You have a button missing."

"My how observant you are," snapped Joe, heading over to sign himself in.

"Running out of clean clothes?"

He could hear the grin in his partner's voice as he leaned over the log-book and scrawled his name and the time he entered the office.

"What do _you_ think?!" Joe retorted as he threw his fedora on the table in front of him and sat down across from Ben.

"I got some good news!" Ben continued. "Gladys called just before you walked in. I was down at the Record Bureau when the call came through. It's in the book."

His sour mood diminished as he dialed the lady's number. That was all he needed to hear. For the entire week, when he and Ben would return to the office to brief their superior or fill out mountains of paperwork, the first thing they'd do was check to see if Gladys had tried to reach them. They were beginning to wonder if she had forgotten or had even told Mr. Flowers anything. They were ready to give up until this morning. When she picked up on her end, Joe said they had received her message. She informed him that the dinner date was set for this Wednesday at seven in the evening at the Flowers' residence. He outlined the details of their objective in what she needed to do in order for Evie to bring the tainted food to them.

"Be on the lookout for what he does to each plate," said Joe. "Try to get him to leave the room for a bit while Evie brings the food to us."

"Where will you be?" asked Gladys.

"I'll be outside the house. Is there a back door?"

"Yes, it leads into the kitchen."

"I'll be waiting there then. When he's out of the room, she'll say she thought she had heard something outside, just in case he's listening. She'll go to the door and give me the food and then I'll get it to the lab."

"Oh, I just hope he won't suspect anything."

"He won't. Just act natural and everything should be fine."

"You'll let Evie know of all of this?"

Yes. I'll be calling her next."

Like Gladys Avery, Evie was understandably apprehensive about the move to incriminate her father, but she wanted to know the truth. Both Joe and Ben thought this would be enough for a confession if all went well, but if they had to exhume Mrs. Flowers—they would.

For the rest of the day, they caught up on paperwork mostly dealing with last week's cases. When five in the evening neared, Captain Steve summoned the two in his office. Thinking he had another assignment for them, they were pleasantly surprised when he gave them the next day off. Joe called Dorothy over at Georgia Street Juvenile and informed her about the next day. As it turned out, she too had it off. Joe said he would be there as soon as possible.

He exited the car as the door to the building shut behind Dorothy. Giving her a light peck on the cheek and taking her arm, Joe walked with her around the car and opened the passenger door for her. Once inside the vehicle himself and shifting gears before heading out into traffic, she wrapped her arms around him. After kissing him hello, she discovered the missing button on his shirt. Joe sheepishly asked if she could sew one on and in response gave him another kiss. By now, they sat at a traffic signal.

Stopping at the boarding house, Joe waited, leaning against his car smoking a cigarette while Dorothy packed an overnight bag. After flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe, he doffed his fedora and held it in his hands, running his fingers around the felt brim as if he'd never seen the hat before in his life.

When she emerged from the back door of the premises, she carried her makeup kit and suitcase; he put his hat on, grinned and saw she had changed from her policewoman's uniform into a pretty yellow dress with a white daisy print. He met Dorothy as she came down the wooden steps; Joe took the belongings and placed them in the backseat. Next, he opened the passenger side door for her and she slid in. He lit her cigarette before pulling out of the driveway. While it was polite to light anyone's cigarette, Joe always thought it was sensual upon lighting one for a woman.

On the way home, they chatted about their day and the past week since they'd seen one another. When Joe said he wasn't sure how to operate the washing machine, Dorothy said she always helped her mother on Mondays after school. In those days, Mondays were referred to as Wash Day. She went on to say that their washing machine hadn't been electric and was glad to know that Ma Friday's was.

"See? I told you someone needed to look after you. You're just falling apart," she said, as he turned into 4656 Collis Avenue.

"I'll park the car in the garage tonight," he said. "That way, I hope we won't be disturbed by any neighbors."

As he went to unlock the padlock that held both garage doors shut, she retrieved her luggage out of the car and set it on the back steps. Gently, he eased the Ford inside and exited the garage, then proceeded to shut and padlock the barn-like doors. He carried her suitcase, while she held the makeup kit, only momentarily holding both while Joe unlocked the back door. He then took both pieces of luggage from her and entered the service porch. After turning the lock on the door, he showed her the washing machine and she said she'll handle it tomorrow. When they entered the kitchen, he set the suitcase on the floor, took the makeup kit from her and put it on the countertop. Just then, he turned to Dorothy, pulled her against him and eagerly kissed her.

"Oh, why did you do that for?" he said, almost whining, when she pulled away briefly. "I've missed you so much. I haven't seen you."

"We'll have time for that later. Right now, I want you to go take a nap. You look so tired," she sternly replied. Joe sighed, feeling dejected as he picked up the suitcase and makeup kit and headed down the hall with her right behind him.

"Join me," he murmured, as they went into his bedroom.

"Not now. I'll heat us up some dinner. Get a little rest. I'll let you know when it's ready."

"Oh, all right," he said, setting her things in the chair next to his dresser.

Joe went to the hall closet by the front door and put up his pistol, holster, and handcuffs. On the way back to his room, he loosened and removed his tie, shoes, overcoat, then pulled back the inviting sheets and crawled into bed. She was right. He was overtired and he damn well knew it. Sleep enveloped him before his head reached the pillow. But this time, images of sand, blood, hedgerows, corpses, and scattered carnage occupied his short rest. He was on the ground, digging into the sand and dirt, looking for something. The children's pail appeared right beside him again and he began to put things into it, only he still couldn't see what they were. Standing up, he went over to another soldier. Joe couldn't hear what he was saying, or rather yelling. He tried to speak, but no words came out. So he held up the pail, pointing to it, indicating that it was something important. The other wouldn't have anything to do with it. He ended up wrenching the pail from Joe's hand hurling it into the air. All Joe wanted to do then was cry. He tried his best to find all he could—but wasn't sure if he could ever find anything again.

"Joe? _Joe!_ Wake up! Joe!"

Someone was calling him. It wasn't a gruff voice, nor was it even male. It wasn't his mother. She knew better than to shake him awake, as this person was doing. It was— _Oh, God! No!_ His mind screamed. He was still in a fog as Dorothy's tremored voice became louder and closer.

"What is it, Joe? Come on... Please, wake up!"

He whirled around from being on his right side, almost blindly pushing her.

"Stop that!" he bellowed.

Joe knew she could see the tears running down his face. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow. When she tried to comfort him by rubbing his back, he jolted up and hollered, "What the hell are you doing here? Get out!"

"But Joe—I just—" she stammered. "It's okay, Joe. You're not dreaming anymore."

"What do _you_ know?!"

With that he flew out of bed, brushed past her, barreling into the hallway and flung the bathroom door shut. He was sure he felt the house quake a little. Joe kicked the pile of dirty laundry he had left earlier that morning until it strewn into a larger heap against the wall.

He turned on the taps in the sink as well as the shower, even flushed the toilet for good measure to drown out his sobbing. Now, he stood with his back to the door, sliding down to the tile and hugging his knees, praying she wouldn't knock. He hoped she wouldn't peek through the keyhole. She was there on the other side—waiting, wondering, taunting perhaps. After a few minutes, as the bathroom filled with steam, he heard her footsteps diminish down the hall toward the kitchen.

What had gone wrong? It had been over a week since the outburst with Ben. He couldn't understand what had happened after things had gone so well with he and Dorothy the last time. Maybe he should've just given into his impulses earlier when they arrived and he would've napped afterward. It couldn't have been the inconsistent hours last week—he'd had those before so many times. _Why now?_ _Why in front of Dot?_ He was sure he ruined everything they had and felt about one another.

When Joe came out of the bathroom in his robe after showering, he crossed the hall to his room where he put on a blue pair of pajamas and slippers. After that, he began to violently pull at the sheets, yanking them as hard as he could off the bed, throwing them on the floor. At his closet now, he grabbed the whiskey bottle off the shelf and took a giant swig. He didn't give a damn if Dorothy or even his mother walked in at that very moment and saw him. Joe felt like hurling the bottle against the wall. That might help a little, but his conscience got the better of him. After returning it to the shelf, he gathered up the bed sheets from the floor and chucked them into the hamper. Heading to the linen closet in the hallway next to Ma Friday's room, Joe snatched a set of clean sheets and slammed the door shut. Wordlessly, he unfolded the bottom sheet, shook it vigorously until most of it covered the mattress. Dorothy appeared on the other side, almost startling him because he hadn't expected her to still be in the house, let alone his bedroom. Together they tucked in the sheet until it was so smooth you could bounce a quarter on it. Still not saying a word, they finished putting the bed together.

"Your dinner's on the table," she said softly, smoothing out a stray wrinkle in the blue-and-white checkered quilt.

"Thank you. Honey, I'm sorry you—" he began to say, but he was too choked up.

"It's all right, Joe. You're okay now."

Desperately, he wanted to believe her, but he wasn't so sure. She now faced him, held out her hand and he took it, following her into the kitchen, where they ate meat loaf, with sweet-sour carrots and peas croquette. In the time it took for the food to heat up, Dorothy had made mashed potatoes and Jell-O chocolate pudding for dessert.

"Do you feel better now?" she asked, once they finished the pudding.

"Yes. I guess I was hungry."

"What did you dream about?"

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing, Joe."

" _Please,_ Dot, I don't want to talk about that right now," Joe said, with irritation in his voice.

He constantly wondered why Dorothy was still here with him after witnessing the aftermath of one of his nightmares about the war. Inside, his nerves twitched and he kept thinking she would tell everyone what had happened when she went back to work on Wednesday. Humiliation and disgrace was all he could feel right then, combined with sorrow and anger. _She'd definitely turn me in for sure._ _She'll call me crazy or worse. She'd tell Ben and they'd conspire together about what they'd seen._

To avoid any more conversation, he quickly got up and went to the icebox. He reached for the last bottle of beer and jerked it out when all of a sudden one of the Anchor Hocking "FireKing" dishes began to move. He didn't recall brushing his arm against it when getting the beer, but maybe he had. Before Joe could stop it, the rectangular piece of glass came toward him and crashed to the floor. The noise, the breaking of glass, the murkiness of the beef stew spilling onto the floor made something inside of him snap. He had reached a boiling point and the turn of a knob on the stovetop wasn't going to help it simmer.

In an instant, Joe was enraged. He threw the bottle across the room where it shattered against the kitchen cabinets. He thought he heard Dorothy shouting his name, but he wasn't sure. Not caring who was in the room with him or that he was already standing in the mess from the first tumble, but one by one, as if in slow motion, gravity took over. Mixed in with beef stew was milk, the spaghetti and meatballs, pot roast, another meat loaf, tuna casserole. He dropped to his knees and began to shove the contents out of his way, not realizing he was cutting his hands while doing so. As if his blood were a roadmap, the thin lines seeped from the open cuts on his hands, winding toward the floor where it seemed to disappear into the haziness of the food.

It was as if he'd never woken up from his nap. He was maneuvering on the ground again, searching for things to put in the children's pail. But where was it? It was there a minute ago, right beside him, wasn't it? What happened to it? He picked up pieces of what he saw as bone fragments mixed with his own blood and held them in his other hand until he could find that pail. He kept swirling everything around trying to find any other piece of his buddy.

 _Where was that goddamned pail!_ Joe's mind lamented as he pushed more rubble out of his way, and threw a debris pile of wood off to the side. _There it was! The pail!_ _It had been behind a pile of wood!_ But something was awry. The pail that held remains of his buddy was much smaller than the one he now held in his hands. It was a dismal gray and had a dome lid. The children's pail he found in the sand on the beach was dark blue and much smaller. This was larger, similar to one that would have been taken to work or school. Right then, it didn't matter to Joe where he'd found it or what it looked like. He had finally located a makeshift coffin and continued depositing portions and fragments of food and glass into it, carefully arranging them inside, all the while thinking he was going to try this time to finally bury his buddy, Zan.

There was that other soldier again. He was shouting at Joe, just like before, telling him he couldn't bury his buddy because he had to keep fighting. A battle was still going on. The soldier's hands, besides his own, gripped the pail like a vice, attempting to extract it from Joe, who fought mercilessly to hang onto what was left of Zan and give him somewhat of a decent burial.

"Why can't I just bury him? This was all I could find," he cried trying to elucidate this to the unsympathetic soldier.

"Bury who?" the soldier asked, as his hands remained on the sides of the pail.

 _That was odd,_ Joe thought. _The soldier had had never asked that before._ _Didn't he see the pail in my hands and wasn't he holding onto it as well?_ Instantly, Joe recalled what happened next in the dream, yet for a moment ignored the object in his hands. In a blind rage, Joe heaved the pail across the room and lunged at the soldier, punching as hard as he could and shouting at him.

But this person was a lot stronger than he. This person held onto him tight and kept repeating, "Don't fight me, Joe. Don't fight me. You won't like what I'll have to do if you keep fighting me like this."

"Why won't you let me bury him?"

"Bury who, Joe?"

This time, the voice wasn't so harsh, it was calmer, more soothing—and had a Texas drawl.

"I found what I could of Zan and they just threw him away!"

"It's okay, Joe. You'll be all right. That was a long time ago. You're not there any more."

The voice went on. When Joe would thrash, the other person would solace him as if he were a father talking to his young son. "You think you can fight me, but you're so tired. Look at you! Come on, now. That's enough!"

Oh, it was so reassuring. Joe's cloud of fury began to subside along with the tenseness he'd felt. He was conscious enough now to realize that Ben was there. _Ben! How did he get here?_

"The worst is over now, Joe."

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker


	7. Chapter 7

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains some strong language and violence.

Chapter Seven

Joe drifted in and out of sleep. This time, in his dream, he was a little boy, not more than nine years old. For his birthday, Ma Friday had bought him a brand new, crisp, clean white button-down shirt to wear to school that day, along with a beautiful wooden box to put all of his pencils and crayons into. The lid had an inlaid tile pattern that bordered around the case. All of the buttons on the shirt were accounted for—unlike the ones he wore where his mother had to constantly reattach them. In fact, she didn't even have to remind him to tuck it in that morning because he wanted to look his absolute best in this unfamiliarity of newness. He felt so proud of his shirt and pencil box for once, instead of feeling ashamed of being on Relief. Before leaving for school, he told his mother he'd take good care of his pencil box and not get his new shirt dirty at recess.

On the way to school, he bounced with enjoyment, looking forward to showing his friends his precious birthday gifts. But before he knew it, three older boys cornered him on the street and tore the box out of his hands, throwing it to the ground, and trampled on it until it resembled a heap of wood shavings. They began to punch his face, arms, stomach, yank at his shirt causing the buttons to fly everywhere and the pure, unworn, unlaundered whiteness turn to a deep red. Being an asthmatic child, he wasn't very strong, but the rush of adrenaline inside gave him the chance to return the blows as hard as he could.

He heard a whistle sound and then a booming voice as Joe now sat on the sidewalk, up against a brick wall with his lip bleeding, a black eye, and tears staining his face. A policeman had sent those bad boys away. Through Joe's tears and hiccups, he saw the man pick up as many pencil remnants as he could. After handing him the broken pencils, the man in the blue serge suit lifted him up and gave him his handkerchief to wipe his eyes and face. With a clean part of the cloth, Joe held it to his fat lip.

"You'll be all right, son," the policeman said in a calm voice. "Come on, I'll take you home and your mother can clean you up."

On the way, he held the officer's hand, feeling safe. No one could hurt him now, not with the giant, tough, tall policeman at his side! His mother wasn't going to like how he looked with the new shirt torn and ruined, not to mention the pencil box destroyed, the crayons that had rolled into the storm drain, and with only two broken pencils left of his birthday presents. Joe guessed he wasn't meant to have new things. The policeman talked to him, in a reassuring, yet firm voice much like his father might have done had he lived.

Someone put a damp, cool wash cloth on his forehead and then gently patted it over the rest of his face. The dream dissolved, but Joe's mind was still muddled. He heard muted voices around him. His hands throbbed as someone gently massaged a liquid over the cuts. The sting of the anti-septic hitting the open sores caused him to wince at the intensity of the sharp pain. The sound of scraping glass along with the sweep of a broom was nearby too. The hushed voices became clearer.

"Should we call his mother?" he heard Dorothy ask.

"No, she'll just worry. Joe…come on, now…wake up," he heard Ben say.

"What happened?" he croaked and cleared his throat. "Why am I on the floor?"

Before either Dorothy or Ben could utter a word, Joe glanced over at the pile of glass and food. His father's lunch pail, crushed and flattened, mingled within the large mound of ruins. His partner stood there in front of the closed refrigerator door now, holding the broom handle, with the looming heap, while Dorothy applied more iodine to his hands. He again flinched at the stinging sensation.

"It looks worse than it actually is," said Dorothy.

Joe wasn't sure if she was referring to his lacerated hands, the kitchen itself, or his own appearance sitting up against the cabinet. Food and blood stains peppered his pajamas. He was sweating profusely and sniffling as if he'd been crying. As much as he wanted to deny it, Joe knew he had been crying during this episode because his eyes were puffy. Like a kid, he wiped his nose with a somewhat clean part of his sleeve and felt relieved that his mother hadn't been here to see him like this or scold him about not using a handkerchief. All he wanted to do then was run and hide, but he couldn't. First his mother, Ben, and now Dorothy had observed what the war had done to him. He couldn't seek refuge in his bedroom with the hidden whiskey bottle. He couldn't continue to push those away who had the unfortunate circumstance of viewing his behavior.

They helped Joe stand up and had him sit down at the kitchen table. Ben sat across from him as Dorothy picked up the broom and began to sweep up the accretion of food and glass. It was everywhere. She'd empty a dustpan full of the night's remains into the metal garbage can that had been brought in from outside. Joe stared as she picked up the trodden lunch pail, the one his mother kept all these years, a link to his father and watched as it was added to the rubble.

While Joe struggled to draw up an ounce of confidence in disclosing to Ben about the war, his partner tried to lighten the mood by telling him about his son.

"We took the boy the see a Hopalong Cassidy picture a couple of months ago. For his birthday, we got him a Hoppy outfit," said Ben, pulling two Fatimas from the pack as well as a match from the book that sat on the table next to an ashtray. Lighting both of them, he passed one over to Joe.

"Did you?" he said, after taking a drag.

"Yeah, he even wanted to go to school in his Hoppy suit but Amy wouldn't let him. He threw a fit, but settled down when I told him about me growing up on the ranch in Texas."

"I'm sure he loved hearing that," he said, with a slight grin.

"I told him I learned to ride horses, rope and brand cattle before I was 13. You should've seen his eyes light up. We lived on a 140 acre ranch. My parents, three sisters and I."

"You were their only son?"

"Yeah. I was the second oldest in the family," Ben replied, taking another puff of his cigarette. "In high school, I used to read the pulp magazines and scoff at the western serials."

"I take it you didn't study much."

"Sure, I did, Joe! I knew what was going on. We would read the _Saturday Evening Post_ about the happenings in Europe. I'd hear my parents talking at night—"

"While reading your pulp magazines."

"While reading my—No! We didn't have electricity! Now, stop interrupting."

"Okay," chuckled Joe.

"Anyway, I remember the _Lusitania_ and then the Zimmerman Note. I was 17 when we finally got into the war that April. My parents wanted me to finish high school, but I'd try to tell them I wanted to enlist in the Army. It got to the point where I'd holler and cuss at them, telling them I was man enough to go… If only I knew then what I know now…." Ben's voice trailed off and he dropped the cigarette butt in the ashtray.

While Ben had been talking, Dorothy began to brew some coffee and went back to sweeping. The pile shrank considerably as the recollections continued.

"Ma and I didn't have any discussions until after I enlisted," explained Joe, now tapping the last of his cigarette out.

"After?"

"Being an only child living with my mother, I was classified 3A, which meant I had a choice in whether or not to go to war. For months we went back and forth about it. I brooded and she worried. Finally, I went to basic in the fall of 1942. I didn't go overseas until the first week of December. One of the last things I did was take a walk around the neighborhood counting the cars that had an "A," "B," or "C" sticker. Mileage rationing had just begun and I put my car up on blocks."

"My parents finally signed those documents that allowed me to enlist. It was a blazing hot day that June when I said goodbye to them and my three sisters at the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe Railway station. I went east to Waco, Texas where I was inducted into the Army."

They watched as Dorothy poured and brought the two coffee mugs to the table setting one in front of each of them.

"Thank you, Dot," said Joe, giving her hand a squeeze.

"This coffee's tops compared to what they have in the cafeteria at City Hall some days," replied Ben, after taking a sip. "Now where was I?"

"You were just inducted into the Army."

"Let me get that," said Ben, as he leapt out of his chair.

"I got it, Ben," said Dorothy, giving him a look. "You just sit there and have a talk with Joe."

"Just trying to help."

"You're doing enough already," she said, lowering her voice.

"Well!" he said, rubbing his hands together as he came back to the table, as Dorothy maneuvered the can onto the service porch and out the back door. "Where were we?"

"The same place you left off before. You had just been inducted into the Army."

Through the open window above the kitchen sink, they could hear her dragging the garbage can toward the garage, the sound of the padlock, and one of the doors swinging open and closing shortly thereafter. There was no need to put the cans at the curb just yet for animals to get at as garbage pick-up wasn't until this coming Wednesday morning. For nearly an hour, Ben regaled Joe about being bivouacked with 100 other young men from all over the central part of Texas for three weeks before loading up onto another train that took them to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio.

"This is where I had my basic training. Working on the ranch all those years, I was in tip-top shape. You couldn't say that for some of them though. We were taught hand-to-hand combat, bayonet drills—"

"Yeah, I had that too."

"Of course, but you didn't have to carry a 1903 Springfield rifle while scaling the walls, or crawling on your belly under barbed wire with live ammunition being fired above you.

"And the marches! You _never_ forget those… The heat was unbearable," Ben paused for a brief second. "Now that I think about it, I'm going to stop complaining about the heat when we're in the office or out in the field."

"You sure do complain a lot about that."

"I'll just remember those marches and think to myself, "This is better."

Joe listened as Ben went on to reminisce about how he was a Distinguished Expert with the rifle as well as with the newest addition—the 1911 semi-automatic handgun in .45 caliber. More sardine-packed train rides in the searing heat, along with marches up the Atlantic coast. It was at that moment Ben said he'd think of _those_ times instead when he groused about the heat while on duty. Finally, in Portland, Maine, Ben along with 28,000 other troops boarded the _SS Great Northern_ that would take them to France. Death had preceded the trenches and battlefields for these men by way of illness, contagion, accidents, not to mention rampant seasickness.

"You couldn't always get to the railing," remarked Ben. "Luckily, I didn't have that problem."

"It was like that going to Normandy," said Joe, quietly.

"You and I were both in France, under circumstances beyond our control, over twenty-five years apart. Isn't that something?"

"Yeah, it sure is."

The room grew silent where only the ticking of the kitchen clock and hum of the refrigerator could be heard. It was 11 p.m. Dorothy had swept up the floor one more time and was now wiping off the cabinets where the beer bottle had smashed.

"You want some more coffee, Joe?" asked Ben.

"Yeah."

Ben took both of their cups and strode over to the stove and refilled them. His partner, being over six feet tall, towered over Joe. In that instant, he understood why he'd had that dream about his ninth birthday. He couldn't recall the real officer's face, but the man had been tall and robust—much like Ben. That police officer had come to the rescue and now, Ben arrived when he needed help the most. His longtime, original, and only partner was there. He'll understand; certainly Ben wouldn't derision him.

"They wouldn't let me bury Zan," said Joe, as Ben set one of the cups in front of him. "His name was Alexander, but everyone called him Zan."

"Was he the one you were searching for in your dream?" Ben set his coffee down onto the table and then eased into the chair.

"Yes."

"Why wouldn't they let you bury him?"

"About a week or so after arriving at Omaha Beach on D-Day, we went on a daytime patrol. Zan was ahead of me quite a ways. Before that, we had some down time, so he wrote his girl a letter. He always said it was her who kept him going. Each step he took upon making it to the beach would bring him closer to home, his parents and siblings, his sweetheart whom he wanted to marry when the war ended.

"Well, on that patrol, the Krauts spotted us and the shelling began. The 88s from the Tiger tanks…you never forget those. They were so powerful. It was said that by the time you heard the explosion of the shell, you were already gone. Zan didn't know. But I saw it happen. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was like the ground was coming up to meet you. That concussion was so strong. It began to rain weapons, body parts, you name it. I was frantic. Like everyone else, I dove into the ground. When the ground finally stopped shaking, the worst is afterward, hearing your buddies around you cry for their mothers, screaming in agony for a Medic. That was also deafening. Some guys just couldn't handle being in the thick of battle even though we had just gotten to France a few days before. Some didn't even make it onto the beach…

"Anyway, after that blast, I began to crawl, searching for any part of Zan I could find. I came across a rusty, old children's pail and began to put bone fragments that I thought were his inside. It might've been him, I don't know. It could've been anybody. I found one of his dog tags and put that in, too. But nothing was really there. It was like he disappeared, never existed. Then, the shelling began again.

"Sergeant Miegs…that bastard! He ripped the pail right out of my hand, and lobbed it like a grenade." Joe recalled, with a shiver, how, in the middle of that charnel house of death he was able to trace the arc of the pail as it vanished into the smoke, flying debris, and men's primal screams.

"He slapped me and said, '"Friday, he's dead! Move your ass _now,_ or we'll both join him!'"

"From then on, I was angry. I despised that Sergeant for what he did. I know we were in the middle of a battle, but…" Joe's voice trailed off at the horrendous and shattering memory before continuing. "Zan was a police officer, too. Only he was from a small town in northern Illinois. Where he lived, they only had one officer working part-time. Can you believe that? One officer and he only worked part-time! We compared notes about our jobs and cases. After the war, we were going to visit one another. He'd introduce me to small town life and I'd show him the city. Zan must've been thinking of his girl for a split second. That's why he got it."

"That's war," said Ben. "When I came home, my nights were haunted by it. I thought, "I'm home now! Why did the war have to follow me back?" I couldn't tell anyone, of course. Just as you felt, Joe. I kept it inside, just as you have. Like I told you in the car on the way to Vegas, over time, those dreams will fade. One dream always stuck out for me though. Every soldier hates it when they're ordered to "fix bayonets." Well, during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, this German soldier and I were face-to-face. It was him or me. I didn't stop to think that he was the same age as I was. A kid, really, thinking he was man enough to go to war, as I had thought. It didn't matter that he most likely had parents and siblings waiting at home for him, as I certainly did. It didn't matter to me that he once had a life before all of this fighting, as I did. At that particular moment, he was the enemy and if I didn't move fast, my war would've ended right there and I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you now. My bayonet was fixed and I charged at him. Your entire life changes after you've gouged a boy in the throat with your bayonet. It was my first kill—up close with the enemy. Years after, I'd still see his face, my bayonet fixed, inching forward. That's when I'd always wake up."

This time it was Joe who lit the cigarettes and passed one along to Ben. There was that unnerving stillness again. The older war veteran and the younger one, lost for a second in their remembrances of horror. In their midst of story-telling, Dorothy had left the room. They could hear her moving about in Joe's room, closing drawers and then the taps of the bathtub run.

Joe sighed as wisps of smoke encircled the air. "They told me I was lucky that I came home intact," he said.

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody told me when I came home."

"If you ask me, no one comes back from war unscathed. It will shadow you till your dying day. People called it shell-shock when I came home and now it is called battle fatigue. Whatever it is, they just want you to go on as usual and live life as normal as possible. It can be maddening sometimes. You have your moments, but in a way, you and I are very lucky. We're not like some of them who can't lead a regular life."

"Yeah. I guess we are lucky there."

"I think our experiences shaped us into who we've become and prepared us for the worst our jobs can throw at us. We can handle a lot and not let emotion get in the way. War had done that to us."

You're right, Ben," he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

No other words were spoken. After Ben finished his cigarette, he stood up. Joe looked up at him and that's when he noticed the blood stains on his shirt.

"I didn't hurt you, Ben, did I?" He asked, now standing.

"You just punched me in the shoulder, the arm, the ribs, that's all."

As they gradually neared the front door, both knew the sacred agreement that what was said inside these four walls would stay within them.

"Thanks, Ben," said Joe, quietly.

"Yeah, okay," he replied and closed the screen door behind him before heading to his car.

Joe felt a little better now as he locked the front door and roamed down the hall toward the sound of running bath water.

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker

To Be Continued...

9


	8. Chapter 8

The Big Witness

(A _Dragnet_ Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _Dragnet_. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Warning:** This chapter contains mild language and sexual situations.

Chapter Eight

The kitchen looked as it had when Joe and Dorothy arrived at 4656 Collis Avenue seven hours earlier, only it was fastidiously immaculate now. While he submerged himself in the bath, she had tidied up the countertops making sure there weren't any miscellaneous traces of glass in the corners or crevices. It was after midnight as Joe came into the kitchen feeling rejuvenated albeit dog-tired from his latest tribulation. Clad in a fresh pair of yellow pajamas, he abetted Dorothy with guiding the refrigerator back to its original space. She had washed the floor where it stood and went over the rest of the linoleum one more time before setting the mop out on the service porch to dry.

Joe eased under the covers, pulling the sheets almost entirely over his head. As he lay on his right side, hair fell over his eyes but he didn't care. He just shut them for a moment while Dorothy did her nightly routine in the bathroom. He must've dozed off because the next thing Joe knew, she was right beside him, gradually brushing the hair off his face with her fingers. The room was dark. He was sure he'd fallen asleep with the light still on.

"Hi, Joe," she said softly, kissing his forehead.

"Hi, Dot," he said as he rolled over on his back and sighed. "How long have I been out?"

"I've only been in here a few minutes. I didn't mean to wake you. You look so peaceful sleeping."

"Oh," he said, giving a slight chuckle. "That fits you much better than my pajamas."

He tugged on the light blue floral rayon sleeve of the nightgown before his fingers glided down the plunging neckline, over her breast where the pleats of the material were gathered. He knew absolutely nothing about women's fashion for he couldn't understand as to why skirts and dresses were longer the year before and a few inches shorter this year. What he _did_ know was that he enjoyed the look and feel of the plunging neckline on her.

"Your hands okay?" She took the one that played with her breast and kissed the areas where the glass had perforated the skin.

"Yeah, they're okay," he said, as she took the other and repeated the gesture.

"Where did you get this I.D. bracelet?" Dorothy positioned the sterling silver bracelet so that the nameplate was on top of his wrist.

"My mother gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I guess she thought I'd forget my name or something," he smirked, pulling her toward him to kiss her.

Now she rested her head on Joe's shoulder, lazily fumbling with the buttons of his pajama top, slowly undoing one, then the other.

"Where did you get this?" Dorothy asked pulling the chain that secured his St. Christopher medal.

"Got that when I was confirmed," he replied, as she tucked it beneath his top.

"I noticed you always wear those." She snuggled closer to him as the room fell silent.

A light drizzle sounded at the window and Joe groaned in disgust. "I hope it doesn't rain too hard. The lawn needs to be moved tomorrow. It really needs it. At least Ma's flowers will be watered now."

He became quiet again, lost in thought.

"I'm sorry you had to see what happened earlier," he said, kissing her forehead while his left hand aimlessly twirled locks of her hair around his fingers. "I don't always have those spells, but lately—"

"It's okay, Joe," she said, giving him a light kiss.

"No, it isn't. But thank you for calling Ben." His hand now moved around her back as he brought her closer to where she was nearly on top of him. His left hand idly meandered at the curve of her hip before resting there.

"He was the first person I thought of. Ben sure surprised me though. I had no idea he had been in the First World War." She took his right hand from where it lay and gently caressed his fingers.

"Neither did I until last week on our trip to Vegas."

"Your mother told me before you got home that sometimes the war still bothered you, but you didn't talk about it much."

"Oooh, I _knew_ she said something when you were over for dinner!" He untangled his hands, the all-too-familiarity of discomfiture arising, and rolled over on his left side so that his back was to her. "I overheard the end of that conversation—"

"She didn't give any details." Dorothy pressed herself against him and put her arm around his waist, kissing his neck.

"Well, that's a relief, but you've seen it for yourself." He faced her now.

"I'm still here, Joe," she said, kissing him while running her hand through his hair before giving him a big hug.

"I don't know what I would've done without you and Ben here tonight," he whispered into her hair, still holding her tight. "I've never told anyone about what happened to Zan."

"I guess a part of you wanted to forget. But you can't," she said as he pulled away from her rolling over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

'No. No matter how hard I try—I can't."

While still stretched out on her left side, Dorothy cuddled closer, pressing her body against his.

"I'm sure you felt like one of the witnesses you interview."

"What?" He turned his head, giving a puzzled expression.

"They don't want to recall those gruesome details any more than you wanted to bring up Zan's death. But they have to in order for the case to move forward. Maybe it's the same for you. You've kept Zan and his death inside all this time, but tonight, you told us what you witnessed. It's not easy for those people to recount their actions upon discovering their spouse or child had been murdered."

"Hell, no….," his voice trailed off and then continued. "Ben did say that with time, these instances will fade. I hope he's right."

"I'm sure he's right. He's older and has been through it, too."

"Yeah."

The rain sprinkled steadily as the two of them embraced in the darkened room. The illuminous hands of the clock spun to one-thirty in the morning. Both felt grateful for having this day off, that is, if the phone didn't ring. They wouldn't be disrupted by the piercing shriek of the alarm at six as Joe was nearly every morning lately since his continuation on day watch. He let Dorothy know how thankful he felt to have Dorothy remain here after the night's circumstances—seeing him at his worst. She told him he shouldn't be alone right now and he, in turn, didn't want to be alone.

The caressing and gentle kissing became more intensified as Joe's hands drifted underneath her gown, meandering up her leg until he felt the enticing moistness. He always loved to get the girl "ready" as he did now by making her crave desire. Joe could never understand the intricacies of a woman and wouldn't begin to try, but he knew it took them longer and he savored every minute of it.

"Joe, wait…" she said.

"Hmmm… What is it?" His voice was husky.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," she intoned and slithered out of bed heading toward the bathroom.

"I couldn't move even if I wanted to," he sighed, hearing her laughter as the bathroom door shut.

He hadn't expected her to halt their passion, but soon realized that she had stopped for a very good reason. Earlier Dorothy told him about how she utilized four different drugstores around the city to obtain a diaphragm. Getting the spermicide jelly was easier. After all, she was going to be married and wanted to be prepared for everything instead of being careless in those trying days of the war. Since she was only engaged at the time, she didn't feel comfortable visiting her doctor. So, the only way Dorothy could get such an item was by hoping the fit was right. The fourth time it was. Luckily, she had saved enough from her allotment pay with the WACs because a diaphragm was quite expensive—around six dollars each time.

He settled down a little and sat on the edge of the bed. Dorothy returned, leaving the light off, carrying a bath towel. Joe stood up and took it from her, laying it across the sheets. She slightly pushed him on the bed. As she went to undo the rest of the buttons on his pajama top, he crushed her to him only to briefly pause their torrid osculation in order to remove and discard her nightgown. Before shedding his own pajamas, he kissed her belly as her fingers wove gingerly through his hair while responding with quiet laughter and the pulling of his thick head of curls as stimulation and longing continued to ignite. He moaned softly as he trailed upward to her breasts, suckling each as his hands cupped her bottom and made their way to rub her back. Joe kissed his way to her collarbone, then finally stood up, wrapping his arms around her waist, with Dorothy's around his neck. They were locked together in a deep embrace, this time momentarily stopping to remove his pajamas.

It was then Joe became masterful by friskily pushing her onto the bed while she sighed and giggled with pure ecstasy. Sliding in bed beside her, he murmured, "I'm not finished with you yet!" He ardently kissed her lips, moving to her neck as his fingers expertly pursued her. A gratifying cry escaped as he felt the warmth of her beguiling flesh, increasing her whimpers all the while carefully rubbing and circling until Joe felt her body quiver.

Not a moment was lost as he hastily infiltrated her, thrusting steadily as his breathing quickened. The bedsprings continued to protest and crunch beneath them as his prodding sped up. The St. Christopher medal swung back and forth as if it were a hypnotist's medallion. Dorothy clasped her legs around his waist, dug her fingers into his back, and moved with him until he gave a satisfactory groan and fell on top of her.

As their breathing returned to normal, they snuggled for a bit until Joe sat up and offered Dorothy a Fatima. She gladly obliged as he lit both cigarettes, passing one to her.

"What are we going to do, Dot?" he asked after exhaling, holding the cigarette between his index and middle fingers.

"About what?"

"I won't have the house to myself too much longer."

"I know."

"Any word on an apartment?"

"Nope, not yet. We could go to a hotel after work or on our next day off."

"No, that sounds so seedy."

"Then, we'll just have to be patient or be creative."

"Yeah, whichever comes first."

Joe awoke around nine to the sound of the washing machine agitator. _Looks like she got it working,_ he thought as he stumbled out of bed to begin his morning ritual. No dreams last night. Inside, he still felt disgraceful about what had befallen last night in front of Dorothy and Ben. He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt for his inappropriate actions, but on the other hand, what had been bothering him finally came out and in front of the right people. You knew who your true friends were when one was in dire straits. At least the entire night wasn't ruined. Part of it had been so enthralling not to mention tantalizing. After they'd finished their cigarettes, the two of them took a shower together. Once in their pajamas for the second time that night, they fell asleep in each other's arms. He hadn't even felt Dorothy slip out of bed earlier.

Dressed in a green and white striped button-down shirt with khaki slacks, he wandered into the kitchen to find Dorothy in a mauve colored floral printed housedress cleaning out the icebox. It was completely empty, except for two milk bottles that stood on the counter.

"Just wanted to make sure there wasn't any glass in here," she said, turning to him as he knelt to kiss her good morning.

"I have to go to the May Company and get some new refrigerator dishes," he said, standing up.

"And slippers," she said, as she took his hand to help her up.

"I already have slippers."

"Not anymore. You ruined them last night."

"Are those from this morning?" he said, pointing to the milk bottles.

"Yes, I brought them in when I woke up at eight," Dorothy said as she took the milk and placed the bottles in the refrigerator before closing the door.

"If it were up to me, they would've spoiled. I don't know what I'd do without you," he gave a slight grin and gently kissed her.

"How are your hands today?" she inquired, holding them.

"Oh, they're fine, I guess. Thanks to you and that iodine."

"Later on we'll go to the May Company and then head over to Ralph's Market and do some grocery shopping."

"I hope Ma won't notice that those dishes will be new."

"She won't. We'll wash them before we put them away."

After a breakfast of strong black coffee, poached eggs, and toast, Joe hauled out the mower and the grass basket from the garage. After attaching the grass basket, he pulled it behind him until he reached the area where the empty clothesline stood. He decided to begin here since Dorothy would fill the line soon and by doing so he wouldn't get remnants of grass all over his clean clothes.

As he began to walk the mower around the backyard a second time, he saw Dorothy emerge from the back door with a wicker basket. He watched as she used the clothespins to hold up the shirts, undershorts, t-shirts, and handkerchiefs. He waved to her and she returned the greeting.

It was a warm morning, so it wouldn't take all day for a laundry load to dry. As he mowed the front yard, Joe suddenly remembered he had to pick up his suits downtown where he had dropped them off at the Chinese laundry yesterday. They could do that later while running their other errands. He began to think about the next day, not only was it going to be a long one, but it was the day of the big dinner date at the Flowers' residence. He hoped he and Ben would be able to have their dinner beforehand, if the two of them weren't bogged down with paperwork and other cases. He hoped it would go well tomorrow and get some honest results.

After bounding up the steps onto the service porch, a pile of dark clothing awaited to be washed and wrung out, along with the towels and bed sheets. Dorothy was doing the breakfast dishes. Joe went around the house emptying all of the ashtrays and wastebaskets. In his bedroom, he took the bottle of whiskey from the shelf in the closet and poured the little that remained in the bathroom sink. After last night, he hoped he wouldn't need it again.

He found Dorothy now removing the light load from the clothesline. The other load had been tossed in. _I can hardly hear myself think with that damned thing going_. _With two more loads, it was going to be like that all day!_ Joe decided now would be the best time to run to the store. He told Dorothy of his plans as they both carried in everything from the line. It was still damp, but this was good for the ironing. You wouldn't have to sprinkle water on the fabric then. By tomorrow morning, everything would be dry, pressed, and ready to wear.

Joe's first stop was to collect his dry cleaned suits down the street from the City Hall. He would've chosen somewhere closer to the house, but at the time he was unaware of this day off. Since he was downtown already, Joe made his way onto Wilshire Boulevard and parked in the lot of the May Company.

Two kids were playing with the revolving door running to see how fast they could make it turn. The mother appeared and scolded the children. They ran after her and left the door still for Joe. He thought about getting a little gift for Dorothy for all of her help, but he wasn't sure what to buy for her. She already had perfume. He would have to ask her subtly how much she had left. That was an idea for the future. Another nightgown seemed too personal right now, despite their relationship going up a notch. He wasn't sure what kind of jewelry she liked. Bath salts could be good, but he wasn't sure if she could enjoy them at the boarding house with other tenants waiting to use the bathroom. _She could use them tonight. We can take a bath together. We haven't done that yet…only showers._ The idea and thought of last night's romantic ordeal fizzled as he approached a floorwalker and asked where the slippers were located.

In the Men's Wear section on the third floor, Joe spotted another floorwalker and asked where he could fine the slippers. The sharply dressed man with the carnation in the buttonhole of his lapel showed him and he selected the same pair he had before.

While paying for these, he asked the clerk which floor the Kitchenware was on and after grabbing his sales slip off of the counter, Joe raced to the elevators, instructing the operator to take it up to the fifth floor. A saleslady helped him select the Anchor Hocking "FireKing" line of refrigerator dishes. The box was quite heavy, but Joe managed to make it out to his car without dropping anything.

Stopping at a Ralph's Market nearest to the house, he bought the essentials—butter, eggs, and bread, along with a three pound ham, pork roast, and splurged on a steak. He figured it would be enough at least for the rest of the week until his mother returned to do the usual shopping. He despised grocery shopping, although couldn't help smiling at the domestic scene at the house earlier with him mowing the lawn and Dorothy at the clothesline. He wondered if this is what it was like to be married. It was the good part anyway—one of them.

In the driveway, as he exited his car, he could see Dorothy with her back to him at the clothesline hanging up the second load of washing. Before bringing anything into the house, he snuck up behind her and kissed her cheek, startling her.

"Just wanted to let you know I was back," he said, beaming, glad that the shopping excursion was over.

"I want to see what you bought," she said, lightly kissing him.

"Oh, you can do better than that," he replied, as he grabbed her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her hard—but not for long.

"Joe, you're so amorous!" Dorothy said, smiling as she pulled away from the embrace.

"Let's take a little break," he said, nuzzling her neck.

"Not now. We have a lot to do today."

"Oh," he pouted, his hands kneading her upper back and shoulders while hers clasped around his waist. "I always hated when teachers at school would say that. And I don't like hearing that from you, either."

They went to the car and she helped him carry everything into the house. Joe hung the three suits in his closet and set the slippers on the floor with his other shoes while Dorothy put away the groceries. She washed the new dishes and Joe dried them, placing each in the cupboard exactly like his mother would have done. This way she would never suspect hers had shattered. He hoped she would think he ate up all of the food.

There was one thing he knew his mother would notice right away and that was her flowerbed beside the house and in the backyard. The little rain they got last night gave some of the flowers hope, but others wilted and drooped with sadness. At least, she would never find out what really happened the night before.

Copyright © 2018 by Kristi N. Zanker


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